


A New Rhythm

by inkysparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adding tags as I go along, Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Deals With Human Emotions, Determined Connor is Determined, Deviant Connor, Feelings, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gavin Reed is a dick, Gun Violence, Hank McGuiltface Anderson, Hostage Situations, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I'm winging this plz be gentle, Identity Issues, Illustrations, M/M, Markus and North are really just trying to help, Minor Character Death, Minor Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human), More Pining, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Post peaceful ending, Protective Hank, Questionable Coping Mechanisms, Sexual Tension, Sort Of, Touch-Starved, Will be explicit... Eventually, but not going about it in quite the right way, descriptions of crime scenes, no beta we die like men, references to violence, what is plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkysparks/pseuds/inkysparks
Summary: Connor is having a hard time adjusting.That's not supposed to happen.The world is saved. The deviants, the androids -- are free. He has an apartment, work he doesn't hate, he sees Markus and the others regularly. But happiness still feels elusive, Hank has distanced himself even though Connor had thought that things were fine, that he'd made a friend. Now he feels adrift in a new world, and he needs to find a way to fill the odd emptiness in his life, because it wasn't supposed to be like this, it wasn't supposed to hurt. And he wasn't supposed to do this alone.





	1. A New World

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for taking liberties with the canon, I haven't actually had a chance to play the game myself yet so a lot of the things that happen might be mutually exclusive paths in the story, etc. I'm also totally winging this, so tags can/will change and most likely so will the rating.

Connor missed Hank.

It was a new thing, lost amongst a myriad of things he was learning to recognize as his own emotions, and at first, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Connor knew well - very well - what it was to have a task, an objective to complete, with a series of well-defined and obvious steps. But this was different, and he couldn’t put his finger on why. It shouldn’t be so difficult to simply go and see him, to at least give him a call and ask how he was doing. But every time his thoughts drifted and he pictured himself knocking on Hank’s front door, he seemed to freeze. A software error, but not really, because software errors didn’t usually hurt.

It shouldn’t have been difficult. He understood the mechanics behind people and their emotions, he knew - at least most of the time - the things to say if he needed to soothe away fear and anger, and how they differed from the things that incited it. This, however, was beyond him. He suspected that caring about the outcome often complicated things.

And Hank was avoiding him.

He hadn’t been sure of it at first. But sometimes, he’d be called in to the precinct as a consultant, and he’d catch a glimpse of Hank, whose eyes would widen before he got up and made himself scarce. There was always an excuse. He had to get coffee. He had to go see someone. He was really fucking busy, Connor, won’t you just go home. Connor always smiled and nodded tightly, and sometimes waited for him to come back, but he never did. And finally, Connor had to make his peace with the fact that Hank simply didn’t want to see him.

Life, mercilessly, seemed to go on. He drifted between his new place and Jericho, but it was difficult to see their shared and easy camaraderie when he knew he didn’t belong. Markus seemed genuinely happy to see him most of the time, and they sat together on occasion and talked about all the way things have changed, but none of them struggled with it like Connor did. Markus liked to paint. North and Simon came over often, and their conversations felt light-hearted compared with the existential questions Connor bombarded him with. They sat, they read, Simon played video games. Once, Connor saw him walk over to Markus where he was sketching something out on a canvas, and lean down to press their lips together for a fleeting second before walking away. He made it looks so easy. And something about it made Connor’s chest squeeze, because he hadn’t realized. He hadn’t know that it was possible, allowed even.

He came over a lot less often, after that. He threw himself into his work, investigating a number of small crimes as a private detective and occasionally consulting with the police department, and for the most part, that was good. It kept him occupied, and he enjoyed it. He was good at it.

When he came home though, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Didn’t know how to fill the empty space in his apartment. The white walls looked almost ominous, intimidating somehow, and every night he pulled his sheets over his head when he recharged so he wouldn’t have to stare at them and wonder what was wrong with him. Sometimes, when even that became too much, he got up and walked around the city, stared at the winking lights and listened to the beats of life and traffic, and felt a little more like a part of things, just another newly freed android wandering the streets. Part of the backdrop.

He needed to see Hank. Even if it was just one last time. He needed to talk to him, to ask — well, something. Anything. Advice. Explanation. It didn’t matter. Closure, he thought people called it. Closure would do.

He told himself, tomorrow. He told himself ‘tomorrow’ every day for a week, before he finally gathered up the courage to come to his house and knock on his door.

He waited, something tight and itchy in his throat, staring at the ground between his feet. He waited long enough that he thought Hank would ignore him like he always did lately, and Connor would have to leave without having seen him, and he couldn’t — he couldn’t leave, he didn’t know if he’d ever find the courage for this again and—

The door opened with a soft creak, and Connor looked up. Hank leaned against the doorjamb, too casually, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked weary, his blue eyes tired, his hair pinned back messily, but he didn’t smell like whiskey, and he didn’t glare at Connor. There was something cautious in his gaze.

“Whadd’ya want, Connor?”

Connor winced. Memories suddenly rushed back, unexpected, good and bad alike. Hank teasing him, talking to him, hugging him but also Hank yelling and shutting him out, and then distant, a single piercing memory of Hank’s gun pointed at his head. He half-turned away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” He realized this now. If Hank wanted to speak with him, if he wanted Connor in his life, then he would have said so by now.

“That’s right, you shouldn’t have,” Hank said, but there was no heat in it. He shifted slightly, gesturing inside, his expression grim. “But since you’re here, I think we’d better talk.”


	2. A New Purpose

Hank watched from a safe distance as Sumo tripped over himself to launch into Connor’s arms like a missile. Connor took it in stride, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips as he crooned nonsense and scratched behind Sumo’s ear, getting fur and slobber all over himself, all over that crisp jacket he always seemed to wear. Hank had told himself he was immune to that smile, but even now, it disarmed him. It was a sweet, fragile, _human_ expression, and if he’d ever needed more proof that Connor was a person, and a person worth protecting —

He cut off that train of thought, because it was dangerous. Instead of following it, he grunted at Connor to come into the kitchen and then made for the cabinets to find some halfway decent coffee. It was too early for this conversation — one he didn’t want to have in the first place — but evidently, Connor was determined to do this to him, so Hank had to steel himself. He tried to summon the resolve that had served him so well as a police officer, the resolve that let him be brusque and blunt and occasionally the bearer of bad news.

It didn’t work. When Connor sat down at his table, his hands folded and back stiff, he almost managed it. But then he noticed the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way he was looking down at his own fingers instead of at Hank, the way his lips were pressed together and the way that infernal _tuft_ fell over his forehead, like it was begging Hank to reach out and smooth it back.

His hands clenched. He sighed deeply. “Why are you here, Connor?”

Connor finally looked up at him, and Hank’s chest squeezed. “I — wanted to see you. I thought perhaps we’d left some things unsaid, and I wanted to clarify them if needed and then —” he stopped, his face falling a little, “get out of your hair for good.”

Hank’s mouth went sour, even as he told himself this was _good_. This was what Connor needed, this is what he’d _wanted_ for Connor. It still hurt to hear the words, said in that cool, calm tone. Even though he knew he’d brought this upon himself, even if he knew it was the right thing.

“I don’t think there’s much to say, kid. We worked well together. Now, life moves on.”

Connor seemed to freeze. His lips parted, brow furrowing as he looked away, his LED spinning yellow. It had been that way since he’d arrived, and now, briefly, it flashed red. Hank’s eyes widened. He forgot his coffee, sat heavily in the chair next to Connor, scooting closer to him with a scrape of wood against linoleum. “Jesus, Con, what’s going on with you? You look _tired_.”

Connor came back to himself. “Androids can’t look tired,” he said reasonably. “The state of my energy levels does not impact my physical appearance, since the biology necessary to—”

Hank waved him off, irritated, “Do I look like I care? Why are you _here_? Did something happen?” He shifted closer, until their knees were almost touching, so he could look properly at Connor’s face.

Connor swallowed, staring at Hank with those guileless, brown eyes. “I — I don’t think I’m a deviant anymore.”

_Huh?_

“Huh?” Hank asked, brilliantly.

“I don’t think I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” Hank ran his hand through his hair, scratched the back of his neck with a long sigh. “I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you can turn off, Connor.” Although the thought sent a sharp flash of fear through him. Did Connor want that? To forget, to stop feeling? Hank couldn’t say he didn’t understand the urge, but he’d grown to love the streak of empathy and sweetness that Connor nurtured. To even consider the possibility of that _ending_ — He remembered how different he had been at first, remembered too well his coldness, all that calculating intelligence. Still, underneath that, there had always been _something_ there, a mischievous spark, a sense of humor, even before he found a way to break free from his instructions. Under the polite, approachable facade, Connor had already existed.

Hank had aimed a gun at his head, once. And even after that, Connor had taken a bullet for him. No, bullets, _plural._ And now…

“I’m not _trying_ to turn it off,” Connor said, an edge in his voice. “I just — I think it’s gone. Whatever was there when we needed it, when the revolution needed it, I think —” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, like he was giving himself a headache.

Oh. _Oh_. Hank was an _idiot_. “Connor,” Hank let his voice go soft. He reached out without thinking, stopped himself before touching Connor’s wrist and set his hand back down on the table, looking at it like it had offended him. “What do you do all day?”

Connor blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand, Lieutenant.”

Oof. Hank’s title was back in action, which couldn’t have been a good sign. He bit the inside of his cheek. Oddly, of all the things Hank worried about, the state of Connor’s deviancy was not one of them. It was enough to take one look at the boy, to see that he had feelings, and too many of them to manage all at once. Certainly for someone new to having them. And if Hank’s suspicion was correct… “What do you _do_ , Connor? I know you work with the PD sometimes, but I mean, outside of your job. What do you do when you come home to unwind at the end of the day?”

“I — I go for walks sometimes. I go home. I —” he exhaled a slow, frustrated breath. “Nothing. I do nothing. Exactly like I used to. Like a _machine_. Do you see what I mean? I don’t — I don’t know what to do with myself. I need _objectives_. I need someone to tell me what to _do_.”

Hank couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. Or the way the huff turned into a thin laugh he _refused_ to call a giggle when Connor gave him a wide-eyed, outraged look. “’Sorry, kid, I’m not laughing at you.”

“You _are_ ,” Connor said quietly, looking away, and Hank’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by a hard lump. Connor wrapped his arms around himself, a self-soothing gesture if Hank had ever seen one.

_Not a deviant, my ass._

Hank stomped down the urge to draw him into an embrace. “I’m not laughing at you,” he said gently. “But, Connor, all the things you mentioned, they’re — the most human complaints I’ve heard in my life. Wanting a purpose, feeling unmoored, after the sort of things you’ve lived through —” he sighed. God _fucking_ dammit, he needed a drink. It was too early for _all_ of this. He gestured impatiently, rubbed his forehead. “Needing direction doesn’t make you any less human.”

Connor’s frown stayed though, and Hank rubbed the center of his chest awkwardly. He figured now was not the best time to explain to Connor that he should stop trying to come see him, go live his life, figure out who he was on his own terms and away from all the people who have hurt him. Maybe even away from Detroit. Having the body and intelligence of an adult didn’t make up for his lack of experience, didn’t change the fact that Connor was in many ways like a child, unused to emotion and all the ways in which it could destroy you. He needed time to grow into it all, time to adjust and act like his own person, discover himself, do all the dumb things teenagers did when they were asserting their adulthood, their independence for the first time. More than anything, Hank wanted to be there for him through this. But he couldn’t.

Connor looked up at him. “Then — what did I do wrong?” The words were a sucker punch to Hank’s gut, stealing his breath from him, squeezing it right out of his lungs. Connor seemed to realize he’d said something wrong, because his frown deepened. “Hank?”

Hank looked up at the ceiling. Pinched the bridge of his nose, so he wouldn’t reach for Connor’s hand again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you _see_ me anymore? I thought — we were friends?” The words were small, plaintive. Hank’s heart felt like it was about to burst. Maybe those damn cheeseburgers were finally about to catch up to him after all.

He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t make himself force out the words he’d planned out, not with Connor sitting inches away, staring at him with that painful, innocent earnestness. He ran a hand down his face, trying to hide from that gaze. He wanted to laugh, because _friends_ didn’t even begin to cover the breadth of his feelings. ‘Friends’ didn’t cover the nightmares Hank had, about Connor being taken away from him in a thousand cruel ways. It didn’t cover the vicious, protective anger that reared its head whenever he so much as _thought_ of Connor being hurt, and it _definitely_ didn’t cover waking up in the middle of the night with his hips grinding into the mattress beneath him, Connor’s name on his lips and his lovely face still in his mind’s eye, the ghost-feeling of warmth under his fingers.

Hank flushed hotly. “We were. But we shouldn’t be.” He managed to look up, feeling like he at least owed Connor the courtesy of eye contact. “Go home, Connor. Take some time for yourself. Figure out what you want to do with your life. You don’t need me for that.”

Connor blinked at him slowly, his face carefully blank. The light at his temple flared yellow, red, and then curiously, settled on blue. For some reason, it made Hank’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat. He waited for some indication of hurt, or anger, but none came.

Connor got up stiffly, brushed dog hair off his arms and his chest. And Hank couldn’t help himself, because somehow he felt that this was it, this was the end, the very last time he’d see Connor in his home or in his life. He reached out and swatted some of the fur off, barely touching, but standing close enough to smell the soap-clean scent of his clothes and his hair. He wanted to draw Connor in for another hug, like the one they’d shared last time, but he remembered the flare of _feeling_ that had almost bowled him over then, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let Connor go if he did that again. He settled for patting him on the shoulder twice, then taking a healthy step back.

Connor’s face didn’t change when he said, “Sumo would shed less if you brushed out his coat more regularly.” With that admonishment, he turned away and left without another word.

“Goodbye, Connor,” he muttered to the empty kitchen. Then he returned to his cabinets, looking for something stronger than coffee this time.

 

 


	3. A New Plan

_Go home, Connor. Take some time for yourself. Figure out what you want to do with your life_.

For days the words had been rattling about in Connor’s head, and although they sounded like a simple enough task, the implementation was something entirely different. He thought that’s what he’d been doing all along, only now that he really considered it, there hadn’t been much of figuring _anything_ out involved, just the same routine as always except with less excitement and less Hank.

No wonder he was bored. People did things that they enjoyed, with people they liked. How was he meant to figure out what he wanted, when the person he liked _best_ had all but told him to get the fuck out of his life?

Still, he had to at least make the attempt. Hank’s order wasn’t made of the same iron stuff his programming used to be, but it still settled something inside him, curled somewhere deep in his mind, soft and compelling. He didn’t _have_ to do what Hank said, the words didn’t chafe or pound at him, didn’t make him feel like if he didn’t obey something terrible would happen. There was just… a prompt there, unassuming, the same color as Hank’s voice.

“Connor, are you even listening?”

Connor didn’t look up until North snapped her fingers in front of his face, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. He straightened up, realizing he’d slumped into the corner of the couch as she talked, his palm curled around the back of his neck and his eyes closed. It seemed to help sometimes, shutting the world out for a bit, letting his thoughts spin unimpeded, but when it happened like this without warning it made people uncomfortable. Or, if you were North, very angry.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Absolutely.”

She rolled her eyes, but the sideways look she gave him was perhaps a little too shrewd. “Right. So then, your advice would be…?” she prompted with sharp smile.

Connor didn’t normally sweat, but he suspected the little chill that crept down his spine was similar enough. “Uh. Go for it?”

“Markus, Connor is brooding again!” she yelled. “He didn’t hear a _word_ of what I was saying and now he’s lying about it. And for _your_ information —” she poked Connor’s chest with her index finger, “you missed my riveting lecture on how to headlock someone correctly, an art form that is to this day severely under appreciated.”

Connor blinked, shifted. “I know sixty-four varieties of the grappling hold. If you’d like, we could compare techniques.”

“ _Not_ the point.”

“My apologies, North. It was rude of me to drift off in the middle of a conversation with a… friend.”

He hadn’t meant to hesitate on the last word, but a sudden realization made him stumble. If Hank didn’t consider him a friend anymore, how could _North_? How could anyone?

Did he have _any_ friends, really?

He rubbed the back of his neck with a troubled frown.

Markus came out of the dimly lit hallway, a sketchbook and a paperback under his arm. He sat down next to Connor and gave him an even, assessing stare. He looked like he was about to say something to the effect of being nicer to North, but then he shut his mouth and leaned forward until he was just about two inches from Connor’s face. He squinted. Shook his head. Connor shrank back until he couldn’t shift away anymore, trapped between the armrest and Markus’s intense, unwavering gaze.

“I really am sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands, unable to meet their eyes anymore. “I think it’s just been too long since I got any rest. I should go home and sleep.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then an inelegant snort from North. “God help him, he’s not brooding, he’s _moping_. That’s even worse.”

Markus tilted his head, his odd eyes locked on Connor’s. His perceptiveness was especially inconvenient in moments like this, when he wanted to keep something close to his chest. A furrow appeared between his brows. “Connor, did something happen between you and Hank?”

Connor winced. “No.” It wasn’t a lie, technically. Nothing _had_ happened. But under Markus’s disapproving look, he sighed, and amended, “Well, not really. We parted ways last week. That’s all. I haven’t seen him since.”

North’s eyebrows shot up. Fury flickered across her face, and she leaned back in her chair. “That bastard. I can’t believe that he’d just use you like — no, scratch that. I _can_ believe it.” She crossed her arms. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You’ve never made a secret of your dislike for humans.”

She threw up her hands. “It’s not about _humans_ , Connor, it’s about assholes being assholes, and you being — _you_. Let me guess. You weren’t interesting enough for him?”

“ _North,_ _”_ Marcus warned.

“Well, look at him, Markus! He hasn’t exactly broken the mold, has he?”

Connor blinked, looking up at her, then to Markus who was staring at her something that was either fury, or — begrudging exasperation.

“Oh.” He rubbed his face. He should have seen this. Just another thing in a long list of things he should have seen. He _knew_ he hadn’t been riveting company lately, but he’d assumed that they kept inviting him over because they wanted him there anyway, not — not out of politeness, or obligation. But it was clear from the look Markus was giving North that he was angry at the delivery, not at the message.

Which meant that North was right. Maybe Hank had just gotten bored of him.

He hadn’t realized he’d gone to get up until he felt Markus pushing him back down, his hands on Connor’s shoulders, his face tight with concern. “Connor, wait. What did Hank say to you, exactly?”

Connor rubbed a circle into the center of his forehead. He sat back, vaguely wishing that Simon hadn’t gone out. “He told me to go and take some time to myself. And he said we shouldn’t be friends anymore.” Then he blinked, realization dawning.

He didn’t have to do what Hank said. But… he wanted to. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that Hank hadn’t looked _happy_ , and something else he said — he’d said they _shouldn_ _’t_ be friends. Not that they weren’t, not that he didn’t want them to be. He’d very specifically used the word ‘shouldn’t’, which meant Hank had his reasons, however twisted up they were, for telling Connor to get lost. If there were reasons, there were solutions.

“Connor?”

North’s nose wrinkled. “You should take out that disgusting LED. It’s weird to see you think.”

Connor blinked. ”I have to go,” he said.

“Wait, hang on.” North leaned forward, placing one hand on Connor’s knee, her eyes flinty. “Connor, it’s not your fault. If he hurt you, or — he’s just another man in a long line of men used to taking advantage of things they shouldn’t take advantage of. You didn’t do anything wrong by being yourself.”

“Advantage?” Connor said tightly.

Markus and North shared a knowing look. Markus stood up with a slow exhale, rubbing the back of his head, pacing slowly and looking at the shelves like his thoughts were scattered upon them.

“You’re newer at this than most,” he said carefully. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not an insult to your intelligence, but — it wasn’t easy for any of us at first. And I don’t imagine it comes naturally to you either. I don’t know enough about Lieutenant Anderson to say with certainty if he’s the sort of person to use that, even unintentionally. And, with respect Connor, neither do you.”

“He’s not,” Connor said, feeling himself bristle, his tone flat. “And I _do_ know that.” Outrage, low and simmering, prickled at him from the inside, his voice rising beyond what he normally allowed. “How can you say that? Hank was the _first_ person to— to see me as something other than a machine. The very first. He’s the reason I’m here, and the reason this revolution didn’t end in our bloody deaths.”

Markus just looked dumbfounded, had the decency to appear somewhat chagrined, but North shot him a scathing look.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” she hissed. “You _don_ _’t_ get to say that, you don’t get to _credit_ him with it. We fought for our freedom and won, and you do _not_ get to tell me that some human swooped in and saved the day by being marginally less awful than the rest.”

“He believed in me,” Connor said simply, something painful clawing at the inside of his chest. Markus and North both stared after him, their brows brawn together. Connor wanted to say something else, explain what he _meant,_ but the words stuck in his throat. He stood up. He had the sudden urge to go home. Somewhere quiet and alone, so he could stew in peace. He tried not to think about how much better it would be if Hank was also there.

“Connor,” Markus said, earnest as ever. “We’re just trying to look out for you.”

Connor smiled dryly. “My _job_ was to read people and manipulate them. Discern their intentions, their emotions, predict how they act under pressure, duress, under kindness. Do you think that I have forgotten it all? No offense guys, but I’m _better_ at this than you are.”

He left. If he’d shut the door behind him any harder, he was fairly sure someone would have called it storming out of the room.

It was difficult to categorize his own feelings as he walked down the snowy street; they flitted by too fast, from the tightness of anger to a heavy, lingering sadness.

He didn’t want to go home. The snow was soft and made his steps through the city almost silent, a soothing quiet settling around him, and it made it easier to think. The air around him was cold and prickled at his face, his systems informing him that the temperatures were safe, but he might want to get inside at some point within the next hour.

 As he filed the argument with North and Markus away for later analysis, something occurred to him. Something that seemed to align with the things Hank had said to him the last time they spoke, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. A plan began to form, fragile and undercooked, but made up of all the little puzzle pieces Connor had managed to put together. The picture was incomplete, but it was a start.

He had a theory to test.


	4. A New Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFFFF you guys, every single kudo and comment gives me so much life. :'D I'm pleased that people seem to be enjoying this, especially since it's the first fanfic I've ever written. Your support means the world to me. <3

“Your plastic boyfriend is here again.”

Hank choked on his coffee. Frowned. Said nothing, because he refused to engage with Reed when he said stupid shit like this. Even if the mere thought of Connor made his heart stutter oddly behind his sternum.

Not that Connor was his boyfriend. Not that Hank would dignify that little ‘plastic’ comment with a response.

“Aww, look, you’re blushing, Anderson!” Reed leaned back against the counter to take a better look at Hank’s face. His smug little grin made Hank’s fingers twitch. “Didn’t figure you to be the shy one in your fucked up little romance.”

Hank took a long, scalding sip of his coffee. It burned on the way down, but it was still preferable to talking with Reed. He turned away and began to walk off, but Reed grabbed his arm, his smile shifting into something harder. “You should be more careful with him, detective. Your toy looks a little worse for wear. Although I hear it’s nothing a little dish soap and hot water—”

Hank didn’t stick around to hear the rest of whatever bullshit Reed was going to spew. Worry lodged thick in his throat, and he shoved Reed away, ignoring his laughter and striding off purposefully, his coffee forgotten.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw Connor, his heart beating hard as he looked for signs of injury or pain. But Reed clearly needed glasses, because there was nothing off about Connor that he could see — nothing at all, actually. His hair was maybe a bit more tousled than normal, the snow that had melted in it making it look damp and a little curled. He was pale, but then Connor had always been pale, and his cheeks were flushed that lovely color between the blue of his thirium and the pink of his skin. He was turned half away from Hank, speaking with Fowler behind the glass and — his clothes were different, Hank noted. Still crisp and elegant, but the thin, synthetic jacket had been replaced with a woolen overcoat, longer than what he usually wore, and the jeans with black trousers that appeared to be skin-tight. A soft-looking blue scarf was wrapped around his neck, and his boots — came up to his knees. Okay. That was… new.

He smiled at Fowler, who was watching him rather impassively, and pushed his fingers through the hair at his forehead to get it away from his face.

Hank’s mouth went dry. He put his hand out to steady himself against the wall, then realized it was three feet behind him. Reed laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re so predictable, Anderson. And… kind of sad, really,” he said. “I suppose that’s nothing new though.”

Hank counted to ten. Ignore Reed. Ignore Reed. _Ignore—_

Connor shook Fowler’s hand and left his office, a small smile on his face. Then his eyes found Hank.

His smile fell, and Hank’s gut twisted.

“Lieutenant,” he said, his gaze flicking down his body and back up to his face quickly. He looked down at Reed, and Hank could have sworn that one of his eyebrows went up _juuuust_ enough to be mildly insulting.

Hank cleared his throat. “Are you — here on a case?”

Connor’s eyes flitted away. “No. I think it’s time for me to stop being a consultant.”

“Ha,” Reed snorted. “Fucking finally. Can’t say I’m going to miss you.”

Hank blinked. Took a deep breath. It made sense, now, why he’d been talking to Fowler. This was — good? That’s what he’d wanted Connor to do. New clothes, new life, new choices. It’s just — somehow, selfishly — he had hoped that Connor wouldn’t quit _this_ , not so soon, if only to get a monthly chance to glimpse him from afar and —

And what? Stare after him like the pathetic, love-struck fool that he was?

“Lieutenant?”

Hank cleared his throat. “Yeah, Connor. Good. I’m happy for you.”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could speak with you. Privately.”

Reed whistled, put his hands up, and wheeled around, walking away and mumbling something about not wanting to witness this anyway.

“Asshole,” they both muttered at the same time. Hank snorted, coughed to cover it up.

Connor gave him a pleasant smile. A too-pleasant one, reminiscent of those flat, emotionless things that pretended to be genuine expressions, the ones he’d seen the most of when Connor had still been someone else entirely. “Would you give me a moment of your time?”

Hank sighed. His chest already hurt, what was a little more? “Yeah, I can spare five minutes.”

“Excellent.” Connor walked away with a single glance over his shoulder, apparently beckoning Hank to follow. Hank watched his retreating back with a frown, noting the stiffness of his posture and his movements, not liking it one bit.

Perhaps Reed had been on to something. Whatever was going on with Connor, it was still weighing on him. The flare of pain he’d felt the last time they spoke returned, sharp with the reminder of Connor’s sadness. His fear.

He followed. They went outside, where snow still fell in fat, silent flakes, their footsteps crunching softly. The fluff settled in Connor’s hair and on his shoulders, and Hank thought about reaching out, brushing them off, taking any excuse he could to touch him or run his fingers through Connor’s hair. Casually, the way one did for —

He bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood. Would he _ever_ learn to shut down these trains of thought before they got to him?

“Hank?”

Hank’s eyes drifted shut, and he shuddered. They’d come to a stop in some quiet corner of a park, and they were alone. Connor saying his name sent something warm rolling down his spine.

He couldn’t look at him. He stared at the jagged, black and naked branches of the trees, and the gray-white patches of snow and foliage around them. “You look good, kid.”

“Hank —”

“I think that — wherever you’re going. You’ll be good at it.” Some words needed to be said, even if they felt like shards of ice leaving his lungs. “No matter what you want to do. And I wanted to say… that I’m proud of you, of whatever choice you made.”

“ _Hank_.”

He bowed his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. It was taking all of his effort to keep his voice steady. He stared straight ahead, maybe managed to sound halfway human. “Just — listen, Connor, okay? I know that things haven’t felt okay in a while, and certainly not since — since everything went to shit and our lives plunged into chaos, but I never got to say how proud I am. And if this is goodbye, for good this time —”

“Hank, will you _shut up_ for five seconds?”

Hank looked up, startled at the raw, _loud_ edge in Connor’s voice. And at the expression on his face as he shuffled to stand in front of Hank, flat and angry and — something else, exasperated maybe, except Hank was having a hard time figuring it out given that his eyes were watering a little from all this infernal snow.

He cleared his throat. Chuckled, though the sound was flat even to his own ears. “Sorry. I guess I should let you say your piece.”

Connor exhaled sharply. It was an unmistakably frustrated noise. His LED flared yellow. “Ask me how I feel.”

“What?”

“ _Ask_ me.”

Hank blinked as Connor’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “How do you feel?”

“I’m _furious_ with you, is how. I never figured you for a coward.”

Hank felt some iron return to his spine. He straightened, brows drawing together, crossed his arms. “Connor, I think —”

“No.” Connor pointed at him. “No, I’m not _finished_ yet. You _ran_ from me. And people don’t run unless they’re afraid.”

Hank growled. “Make your point.”

Connor tipped his chin up slightly. There was heat in his eyes. “After everything, I thought that you of all people would have faith in me. It _hurt_ me when I realized you did not.”

Hank blinked, deflating, because no, that wasn’t — no, not his point, not what he’d—

“You cannot tell me you’re proud of me in one breath, and in the next push me away because you think I’m too incompetent to make my own choices. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t hate me, you don’t want me gone, you just think you’re somehow _saving_ me by leaving me — alone.” His words seemed to catch, and he closed his eyes for a second before opening them again.

Hank swallowed thickly. “I don’t hate you, Connor. You know I don’t.”

The LED pulsed red, and Connor finally looked away. “You could’ve fooled me.”

Hank stared, dumbfounded. Then he frowned. “That’s the _problem_ ,” he said. “Jesus, Connor, I — I’ve _hurt_ you. I’ve hurled abuse at you, I’ve _told_ you things — so many things that no longer apply, but things that I felt nonetheless. I almost _shot_ you.”

A memory, of his own hand shaking as he pressed his gun to Connor’s head. How close he’d come then, to pulling the trigger, made him feel physically ill.

“You shouldn’t want to be around me,” he ground out.

“Would you do those things again?”

“ _No_.”

“Then I don’t see how —”

“Because you are less than a _year old_ , Connor. When someone _does_ things like this, you — you’re allowed to forgive them, you are, but — these things take time, and space to yourself, and — you can’t just forget that any of it happened, just like that. You need to —”

“Hank,” Connor said, his voice strangled. “No offense, but if you keep talking, I might hit you.” He took a step forward, his hands in his pockets, like he was hiding them on purpose.

Hank sighed. “Human relationships are complicated, Connor. Abuse is… insidious, quiet sometimes, and I could never —”

“Take advantage of me. You’re worried you’re going to take advantage of me.”

Hank frowned. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Something Markus said,” Connor muttered. “I’m an idiot for not having seen it sooner. It makes perfect sense, given what I know about you.”

“Like what?”

Connor rubbed the back of his neck, his lashes suddenly low. “That you’re a good man, Hank. That you’d rather deny us _both_ something good because you’re afraid of hurting me.”

Hank’s heart thudded, stuttered over itself, because it sounded like — no. It couldn’t. It didn’t. He was imagining things, because his lecherous old brain _wanted_ this with an intensity that colored everything else. “I’m not nearly as noble as you seem to think that I am.”

Connor huffed. “Do you think I don’t have regrets, Hank? Do you think I don’t know the feeling of _guilt_? I know you’re not perfect. You’ve said things that — hurt my feelings. Yes. But nothing as much as when you told me we shouldn’t be friends.”

Hank paled. Ah, yes, his other problem. “I’m not taking that back.”

“Although, I happen to agree with you.”

“ _What_?” he snapped, before he could ignore the irrational flare of outrage that reared its head.

Connor, for some reason, seemed to find this amusing. “I don’t think friendship is an adequate descriptor of how I feel. Markus, Simon, North. They are my friends, Hank. But you’re the only one that I —” his LED flared red again, briefly, before suddenly settling into blue again. He blinked rapidly, and the fight drained out of him, his shoulders slumping. “Hank, I—”

Hank stepped forward, his hands curling around Connor’s upper arms before he could stop himself. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t restrain his worry at the vulnerable tone of Connor’s voice, the thread of fear and sadness running through it. He wanted to hug Connor again, only last time, last time had changed everything, hadn’t it, and this time—

Connor wrapped his arms around Hank’s middle and crushed him to his chest, his grip made of steel, caging him like he was afraid Hank would evaporate. His hair brushed Hank’s cheek. He smelled like snow, clean and sharp, and his fingers dug into Hank’s back.

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he muttered against Hank’s shirt. “Tell me to go, Hank.”

Hank’s arms around Connor tightened. He felt solid and strong in his grip, more panther than person. He was shockingly warm, and he breathed, his ribs rising and falling steadily. Hank closed his eyes, a groan working its way out of him, the relief of holding Connor again doing something warm and liquid to his locked muscles. Just once more wouldn’t hurt. Hank choked. Because if this was it, if this was goodbye, then he didn’t want it to end yet. Or ever. Even if Connor was slowly crushing the air out of him with all the persistence of an anaconda.

He didn’t think much of it when Connor reached up to rest his hand against the side of Hank’s neck, or when he took a quarter-step back to look into his eyes. He was only sharply aware that they were standing too close, that Connor’s skin warmed him in all this cold, and that in his eyes was something so fierce and determined that Hank could only call it beautiful.

His breath felt unsteady. If anyone saw them now — they were still embracing, well within kissing distance, and although Hank’s hands had drifted to rest politely on Connor’s waist over his woolen coat, he was a hair’s breadth away from using that grip to pull Connor in again, this time _much_ less politely.

Inexplicably, Connor’s mouth curved into a small, slow smile. One of the good ones that reached his eyes.

Hank let him go. Took a firm step back, his heart thundering again, mourning the loss of contact but afraid of what he was going to do if he stayed a second longer. No, this was not a line he would cross.

Connor sighed. But the smile remained. “I need to ask you something.”

Hank cleared his throat. Had to do it again before speaking because it only came out a croak. “Ask away.”

“Do you think that I’m a good detective?”

Hank blinked, the question taking him off guard, but he was nodding before he opened his mouth. “Naturally.”

Connor beamed at him. “Good, because I’d like to return to the DPD in an official capacity. As your partner again, if you’ll have me, but even if you won’t, Fowler said there’s room for me on the force.”

And Hank just… _what_?

What?

“Is that what your little meeting this morning was about?” Hank grumbled.

Connor pursed his lips. “It wasn’t a ‘little meeting,’ it was a career move. I realized the other day that I missed real police work. So I went to him, and he seemed receptive to the idea of working something out.”

“But — you can’t—”

“By all means, Lieutenant, _keep_ telling me what I can and cannot do.”

Hank stared, stunned at the ice in Connor’s voice, but stuck somewhere between worried and unbearably aroused, because _fuck_ if Connor wasn’t hot when he sounded like an angry dom.

And fuck if it didn’t also fill him with fierce joy and dread all at once, because seeing Connor every day again sounded like _exquisite_ torture. Hank had never figured himself for a true masochist, but somehow he thought he wouldn’t mind this. Even if the part of him that wasn’t still drunk on Connor’s embrace yelled obscenities at him from a dark recess of his mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who was wondering, I doodled what I imagined Connor's outfit as more or less. https://inkyserifsart.tumblr.com/image/183308871526 :| and it occurred to me that I'm not good at drawing like, actual clothes, lol.


	5. A New Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOo, sorry for the delays, a few more might be coming because I'm drowning under piles of classwork. This chapter I had to rewrite like twice, but I hope it's now good as is.

“How many is this now? Six?” Hank asked, brows pulled into a heavy frown as he stared at the tattered paper in his hand. It had fallen from the stack of Connor’s files and onto Hank’s desk.

Connor snatched it from him, tucked it into his pocked without looking. He didn’t need to read it — Hank’s expression told him everything he needed to know.

“Something like that,” he said, although in truth it was a few more than that.

The first note had worried him, though he hadn’t said as much, hadn’t wanted to concern Hank with his irrational spike of fear. It had faded on its own, and only got lesser with each threat.

They were not written by the same person. They had been penned at different times, in different ink, on different paper. They only ever had two things in common — they were addressed to Connor, and no one ever followed through on them.

Hank shifted, tilted his head  and leaned forward in his chair to take a better look at Connor’s face. Connor refused to meet his eyes. He stared resolutely at his terminal, the photographs on it, trying to see a pattern that probably wasn’t there.

Twelve androids. The photos were unpleasant, grisly, dark splashes of thirium in dimly lit rooms. A few outside — a park, some alleyway, a dumpster behind a restaurant. Connor stared at the pale, slender hand of one male, pressed to his own stomach where he’d tried to stop the bleeding. He’d been beaten so badly that his biocomponents had simply crumpled, then stabbed and left for dead.

Different parts of town, different murder weapons, times of death, different lives. Only two things in common — what they were, and the cruel brutality with which they’d been killed.

Connor could have smiled at the twisted parallel. Only something nagged at him, something that told him he was missing a link.

“Listen, maybe you should —”

“It’s fine, Hank,” Connor said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not the first. It won’t be the last. I’m used to being disliked. Half of them are probably from Gavin.” He’d intended that as a joke, punctuated it with a half smile, but Hank’s expression darkened as he crossed his arms.

“Is he still bothering you?”

Connor finally looked up. Had to stamp down a sigh, because for some reason his heart decided to act up whenever he met Hank’s eyes. “No more than usual. It’s okay, I don’t think he’s _actually_ the one sending the death threats.”

A muscle in Hank’s jaw jumped. “Why don’t you let someone come by your place once in a while? Keep an eye out.”

“I don’t need protection. Every detective sometimes deals with —”

“We both know this isn’t about your job, Con.”

Connor shrugged. No, it wasn’t. There was nothing to be done about that. “Before I was a detective, I was very publicly part of the revolution. Before _that_ , a notorious deviant hunter. Lots of people on both sides of the conflict have valid reasons to hate me.”

Hank frowned. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m as safe as I can be, given the circumstances.”

“You’d be _safer_ with someone watching your back.”

Connor stared at Hank. Yes, theoretically the chances of remaining unharmed for as long as possible increased with the presence of an armed officer. But Connor didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t want the extra measure of safety, not if it meant someone else hovering around him, glaring at him with poorly masked resentment. Connor had never been particularly well-liked on the force, and things were… not worse now, maybe, but definitely not much better. Getting an official job at Hank’s side, pay and all, had definitely soured a few peoples’ opinions of him. He wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but it wore on him over time, grated at his patience even as he tried to remain polite and keep his distance. His apartment wasn’t exactly the sanctuary he knew a home was supposed to be, but it was the only place he could be away from it all.

“It’s unnecessary,” he said finally, his tone harder than he intended. “And a waste of resources. I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”

Hank put his hands up in surrender. “I know you are, I just — never mind. Just show me what you’re working on.”

He walked around to stand behind Connor, leaning in close and bracing against the desk, his arm almost brushing Connor’s. Connor could smell aftershave and coffee, and a hint of soap.

 It wasn’t the first time he noticed that Hank was taking better care of himself. He smelled like alcohol a lot less often, and his clothes were maybe a fraction looser around his middle. He didn’t look as tired. There was a softness around his eyes now, sometimes. Connor wondered what it meant. It was nice to see it anyway, even if it stirred something vaguely painful deep in his chest.

He didn’t realize he’d started staring until Hank looked over at him, evidently confused at his silence, their faces inches apart. Connor blinked, his thoughts scattering into something entirely useless.

Hank straightened up sharply, the tips of his ears turning pink. Cleared his throat, gesturing at the photographs.

So Connor wasn’t imagining things. Hank got flustered around him sometimes, and it could have been encouraging if not for the fact that he seemed to be put off by it more than anything else; he was always the first one to step away, never taking the invitations that Connor freely offered. Connor wondered if he was doing something wrong. He didn’t know how else to encourage Hank to just — relax around him again. He always sat too close, never touching, hovering just out of reach. It was making Connor feel… tense.

He still often wondered why, and how things had changed, but he suspected the fault lay with him. It went back to that first hug, when Hank had pulled him in and inadvertently sent Connor into something he could only describe as cardiac arrest. Connor had lingered. Perhaps too obviously, and now things were still awkward.

“Alright, what do ya need, Connor?”

Connor sucked in a sharp breath at the low rumble of Hank’s voice by his ear. It took him a second longer than usual to process the question. “These reports. I think they’re connected. I wanted to follow up on the most recent one, but I’d like your input.”

Hank pulled up a chair, settled next to him as he perused the file in question. “Dunno, Connor. Looks as random as the others to me. But what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. But there’s been twelve of these in as many days. And all of them — they’re brutal, Hank. Statistically, most crimes are committed with firearms. But here — look, only two by bullet, and even then, they were beaten and violated like the rest was. There’s nothing else that links them, but —”

“But you have a feeling,” Hank said carefully. He looked at Connor for a long time before a slow smile tugged at his lips. “Good. Are we going now, or after lunch?”

Connor blinked. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Hank eat since morning. The sky outside was already darkening, turning a mottled bluish-gray that made him feel oddly ill at ease. “Food first,” he said. “It’s getting pretty late.”

Hank stood with a soft groan. “Alright, come on. We’ve both been sitting here too long.”

 

To Hank’s horror, the burger place down the street had closed early — the owner  had gone home to avoid the coming storm. Snow was beginning to fall thick, and the forecast told Connor it was only going to get worse. He suggested a different place, somewhere they could sit inside and take a break before continuing, and although Hank pulled a face at the name Connor mentioned, he didn’t put up a fight.

Not until Connor parked by the curb out front and he saw the byline on the sign outside.

 _“No_ ,” he said, something shaky in his voice. “No way in hell, Connor, get me the _fuck_ outta here.”

Connor looked at him seriously. “They’re just vegetables, Lieutenant. They’re not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not eating at Diego’s _vegetarian_ bar and grill,” Hank snapped, his voice rising. “I’d love some real fucking food, thank you.”

Connor tilted his head. “This restaurant has good reviews, a nice atmosphere, and it’s got plenty of seating options that are quiet and out of the way so we can talk. _Also_ ,” he couldn’t resist adding, “vegetables contain essential vitamins, nutrients, and minerals necessary for—”

“Alright, alright, spare me,” Hank groused. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Good. After you, Lieutenant.”

“I’ve got a reputation to uphold, Connor. I can’t be seen eating — _this_.”

Connor’s lips quirked. “If you’re afraid, I can hold your hand. I’ve heard humans find that quite comforting.”

Hank shot him a scathing look. Seemed to freeze, opening his mouth and closing it again before he said, “You betrayed me, you evil little shit. Hold your own damn hand.”

Connor looked down at his hands as if considering doing exactly that, smiled when Hank smacked his arm and got out of the car, grumbling under his breath.

They ended up sitting down in a dim corner of the restaurant, where their seats were shielded from view by the fronds of a grassy looking plant. The table was far from the few people there, lit pleasantly with a warm floor lamp and surrounded by bookshelves. There was foliage decorating the floor and the walls, but all of it tasteful, the music low and smooth, fading into the background.

Hank quirked an eyebrow as he sat, his face the picture of disgust. “I’m going to make you pay for this later,” he muttered.

Connor stared at him, mouth twitching again. It seemed to do that a lot around Hank. “If you actually end up hating it, you’re welcome to try.”

Hank snorted. But to Connor’s pleasant surprise, didn’t put up more of a fight when ordering his food.

He got something with too much cheese and carbohydrates, but it was still a step above his normal fare, and Connor relaxed as Hank ate, letting his eyes drift shut. He wanted to think about the case, but his thoughts refused to cooperate, drifting instead towards the quiet jazz and the soft snowfall outside, and Hank’s warm presence beside him. Everything faded into a low, lulling hum.

He didn’t realize Hank had been saying his name until a hand hesitantly touched his knuckles. He blinked at Hank, frustrated with himself for putting the frown back on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just… thinking.”

Hank grunted. “Are you sleeping enough?”

“I think I am. I don’t know,” Connor said, troubled. “It’s… I’m doing better than I was. In the beginning, there were days that I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Jesus, Connor, you might’ve _told_ me.” Hank’s hand tightened on his, gripped almost too hard. A tingly kind of burn seemed to travel up Connor’s arm.

Connor looked at him, his heart beating hard. “When?” he asked. “You were avoiding me.”

Hank winced. Then seemed to realize he’d rested his hand on top of Connor’s, because he jerked back as if it had scalded him.

Connor sighed, scrambling to pretend he hadn’t noticed, afraid that Hank was about to launch into some kind of apology. “It doesn’t matter. I’m doing much better since I got back to work,” he said quickly. “I sleep most nights now, and — my home is no longer empty. I bring by case files,  photos,” he explained, fumbling with the words, not completely sure what the point of sharing this was. Perhaps he just wanted Hank to _know_ him. “I’ve thought about taking up some kind of hobby.”

Hank leaned forward. “Thought about it?”

“Markus paints,” Connor said by way of explanation. “North has her martial arts school, Josh dances. Simon —” he smiled ruefully gestured to himself, the butter-soft leather blazer he was wearing and the crisp white shirt underneath. “He seems invested in making sure I dress better. I’m not sure why.”

Hank waited for more. When it didn’t come, he sighed, wiped his mouth with a napkin as he got up. “Come on. Time to hit the road.”

“Can you drive? Or did the vegetables make you violently ill?”

“Hmph. It’s cute that you think you’re funny.”

Connor stood. They made for the door, walking side by side. “I’m objectively funny,” he said. “I have access to an infinite database of —” he stopped cold when the door opened, his words whipped away by the sudden gust of wind.

A storm was blowing in. The snow no longer soft, but thick and harsh and stinging as the gale tore it from the sky with a sound very much like a howl. The sky had darkened, the sun having dipped behind the skyline, and the world was black and white and bathed in the distant glow of cold lights.

Connor stumbled.

“Connor?”

He wanted to answer. But the voice that reached him felt distant, and his own wouldn’t work. He was suddenly filled with ice, the air squeezed out of him, his limbs numb. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, doubling over, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He had to — do something, run diagnostics, but neither his body nor his mind would obey.

There was only _fear_.

Was Amanda back? He searched for her, but he found nothing, not in his surroundings and not in his brain, but something was _wrong_ , he knew something was wrong, something must have broken inside him because his mind felt fractured and that wasn’t supposed to _happen_ , he wasn’t supposed to fail, he wasn’t supposed to break down like this, he wasn’t _made_ to withstand whatever was happening to him and —

“ _Connor!_ ”

“Hank?” he choked out, his voice a pathetic rasp.  Fingers were digging into his arms, his back pressed to the cold wall behind him. He sucked in a shaky breath, then another, and another, even though it wasn’t helping, of course it wasn’t, he didn’t need to _breathe_.

“Come on, Connor, put your arm around me. That’s it, there’s a good boy.” A hand between his shoulders, heavy and warm. “Don’t fight me, I’m just — _fuck_ , I don’t know, we’re gonna get you help. I’ll take you to Markus, he’ll know what to —”

“ _No_.”

Not Markus. Not now, not when he was compromised like this. He couldn’t be around anyone, it wasn’t safe. Besides, he didn’t think a trip to the repair shop would fix whatever was wrong with him. He wasn’t sure anything could.

Hank dragged him to the car, pushed him down into the passenger’s seat and shut the doors, but he sat half-sideways in his seat, facing Connor, still gripping his upper arm. It felt like the only thing holding him upright.

Connor hid his face in his hands, shuddering, the sound of Hank’s voice still a weak echo. But the howl of the wind wasn’t as loud in here, and the car smelled like Hank, not snow. He didn’t have to look out the window, and it wasn’t enough, but it didn’t swallow up his mind like this. He could focus on little things, like the creak of springs underneath him and Hank’s dark, low voice saying something he couldn’t parse but understood as… soothing?

He rubbed his face, ran both his hands through his hair, straightened up. It was fine, as long as he only looked at Hank and _not_ the outside.

His eyes were clear blue, soft and piercing at the same time, and full of kindness. Hank’s kindness was something he understood, something anchoring. As long as he didn’t look away, it was fine.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispered.

Hank’s face twisted. His fingers on Connor’s arm tightened, and the sharpness of it sent Connor somehow back into his body. He wanted to look at that point of contact, but he was afraid Hank would let him go.

“I’m taking you home.”

Connor’s pulse skittered away from him, a panic he could feel in his mouth. He blinked quickly. “Please don’t. _Please_. I don’t like it there.”

“Connor —”

“We should go to the crime scene. I—”

“You’re insane if you think I’m taking you _anywhere_ like this,” Hank snapped. Then his voice gentled. “ _Home_. My place. Don’t fight me on this, Connor.” Hank’s grip on his arm loosened and Connor almost whined, but the hand never broke contact, just drifted up his shoulder to rest on the side of his neck. It was four degrees hotter than his own skin.  It felt like it might burn him. He leaned into the touch hungrily, soaking up the heat, not knowing how long it was going to last.

Connor exhaled. Closed his eyes.

He nodded tightly, an ache he didn’t understand settling into his bones.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a companion image for the *previous* chapter, in which Hank confuses Connor's hurt voice with his angry top voice. https://66.media.tumblr.com/20f4acfd0b39c68e6dbd1784187311c7/tumblr_po6hshO6kM1y6jhzvo1_540.png


	6. A New Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be needy, but when you guys comment I literally hang on to your every word. <3 Thank you so much for the love :D This time I added an illustration straight at the end, but like, let me know if you'd rather just have a link in the notes.

Connor’s silence as he walked through Hank’s door was not unusual. He tended towards quietness sometimes, and that didn’t bother Hank at all.

What bothered him was the blank, desolate look in his eyes. The LED still flickering between yellow and red. The way he stopped short before coming inside, looking around with a lost expression that didn’t belong there, not in Hank’s _home_.

Hank pushed him towards the living room, where Sumo slept soundly, hastily getting them out of the snow. He didn’t know what it was that had upset Connor, but being out in the cold seemed to make it worse. He shut the door behind them, locking the draft and the blizzard behind a safe pane of wood.

Connor stood awkwardly in the hall, dripping melting snow onto Hank’s floor. When Hank reached out to touch his fingers, they were ice cold, but the light at his temple turned a soft, familiar blue, and he looked up with something pensive on his face.

Hank sighed in relief. Pensive, but at least present. “Let’s warm you up.”

Connor sighed and walked wordlessly to the kitchen table. He sank into a chair with little of his usual efficiency, something unspeakably tired in his eyes. “I’m about to be the world’s biggest hypocrite.”

Hank sat down next to him, frowning. “Hm?”

“I think I need a drink.”

Hank winced. That was probably his fault. And now Connor was going to make _him_ into a massive hypocrite too. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong first, and if it’s that bad, I’ll pour us two?”

Connor rubbed his face with a sigh. “I shouldn’t be here. I — can’t be around people right now.” His hands clenched into fists on the table.

Hank reached for them. Something fragile, perhaps his self control, had snapped inside of him back at the — he shuddered — vegetarian grill. He’d told himself working with Connor, being around him every day wasn’t so bad. As long as he didn’t look at him too often. As long as he didn’t touch him — _ever_.

“It’s a good thing I’m not ‘people’ then,” he said, squeezing Connor’s freezing hands, trying to rub circulation into his fingers. He wasn’t sure it would work, was still entirely confused as to the ins and outs of Connor’s anatomy, but seeing Connor sigh and some of the tension drain out of him was enough. Breaking his own rules had never felt so good.

“I just — the snowstorm,” Connor said, his voice small. “It felt—” he cut off, frowning, rubbed the back of his neck, let his hand rest there as he stared at the table with a frown between his brows. “I—I don’t know. It’s like I was back _there_ again, and that hasn’t happened since—” he shuddered. Closed his eyes. “It’s been a long time. And the last time I saw something like that, I— I almost lost myself. I thought I’d _left_.”

Hank attempted to parse this. “So it was the storm?”

His lashes were long, and Hank felt the absurd urge to reach out and brush his thumbs over them, see if they were as soft as they looked. It wasn’t the first time it really hit Hank, how human he was. Even with the LED giving away his mood, and the way his flushes were always a little tinged with blue. His expressions were often shockingly open, too easy to read when he wasn’t watching himself carefully.

Connor nodded. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? Just some snow.” His breath hitched. “How can I do my job like this? How can I do _anything_ like this?”

“Hey, hey now. Connor, look at me. _Look_ at me.” He reached out to cup Connor’s jaw without thinking, tilted his face up gently. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Sometimes shit gets to people. Tomorrow you’ll get up, you’ll keep going just like you always have. And if you don’t, I’ll be there anyway.”

Connor stared at him. It went on too long, was too intense, matched the weight in his chest all too well. Hank had never applied the phrase _soulful eyes_ to anyone in his life, but he thought it could apply to Connor. So he tried for a light smile, slid his hand up to teasingly ruffle Connor’s hair.

He was completely unprepared for the soft, breathless sound Connor made, or the parting of his lips as his eyes drifted half shut. He leaned into the touch, reaching up to wrap his cool fingers around Hank’s wrist. It went straight to his gut, a spark of something that was half heat and half anger.

Whatever had hurt Connor. He wanted to eviscerate it.

Hank should have stopped things then. But Connor’s grip was firm, and besides, it was hard to put up a fight when he looked so very _blissed out._ So he shifted closer, scratching at his scalp gently, smiling when Connor relaxed and leaned into it, ignoring the way — _ignoring_ goddammit — the way his arousal spiked at the thought of Connor looking at him like this all the time.

Connor’s mouth curled into a half-smile. He _did_ look tired, no matter what he said about it being impossible. “I wish you’d do this more often,” he said, his voice low and wistful. Sleepy. “It feels nice.”

Hank brushed his thumb over his eyebrow. Traced the shell of his ear. Connor must have been well and truly exhausted, because he was talking nonsense. “If I did,” he admitted, “I wouldn’t want to stop there.”

Connor sighed. “I don’t believe you.”

And there was something so sad about the way he said it, like he couldn’t think of anything more upsetting, that whatever was left of Hank’s heart felt like it splintered. Connor didn’t _believe_ him? He saw, he _must_ have fucking seen the way Hank looked at him. How could he not? And if he did, if he _wanted_ more, than what in the hell was Hank supposed to do?

“Stay the night,” Hank said. It was a terrible — _terrible_ — idea. But he couldn’t send Connor back out into the blizzard, or to his empty apartment that he apparently didn’t like. “You can try to sleep here, can’t you?”

Connor nodded hesitantly.

“Good,” Hank grunted, which made Connor smile for some reason. “Let me make up the bed for you. Get you some dry clothes.” 

“I can take the couch.”

Hank barked out a laugh. “Like hell you will. Come on.” He reached out for Connor’s hand. It was warmer. But still cold. “Do you need a hot shower?”

Connor shook his head, his small frown returning. “I — shouldn’t stay long. It’s not safe.”

“Of course it’s _safe_. No one is going to hurt you here.”

Connor just shook his head mutely, rubbing his forehead again. Hank sighed and squeezed his shoulder. His jacket was still wet, cold. “Alright, no more of this. Go take a shower and change into something of mine. You need to _relax._ I’ll put on some music, we can hang out and drink till we pass out, how’s that sound?”

Connor’s answering chuckle was weak, but undeniable. A pang of sadness curled through Hank. He’d never really heard Connor laugh before. He wasn’t sure this counted, being barely two shaky exhales.

Connor stood eventually, shrugged out of damp leather and left his blazer on the back of the chair, and walked off to the bathroom.

Hank made good on his promise to put on music while Connor showered — there was nothing as warm or as comforting as slow blues on vinyl, and the familiar rumble of acoustic guitar filled the space well as Hank drew the curtains, shutting out the snowstorm entirely. He walked about the living room, feeling suddenly awkward. He took off his coat, straightened the records on the shelves, the books and magazines lying askew, the few empty bottles that lingered. He threw those out, wincing at the noise when they landed in the bin. Sumo raised his massive head, giving Hank a reproachful look.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank muttered apologetically, walking over to scratch him behind the ear. Sumo groaned, tilting into his hand, and Hank’s mouth twitched. No wonder him and Connor got along.

Connor took a long time in the shower, and Hank was just beginning to contemplate going in to check on him when he emerged from the hallway, steam curling behind him, his hair wet and lashes spiky.

He was also wearing Hank’s clothes.

Hank had underestimated what seeing Connor wearing loose sweatpants and an over-sized ACDC t-shirt would do to him. It wasn’t unlike a punch to the gut, actually, given that Connor never seemed to wear anything casual or comfortable, or God forbid anything that exposed any skin. Yet here he was, barefoot and in short sleeves that still managed to look a little long on his frame.

Hank had never thought _elbows_ could be so damn fascinating. He was decidedly too old to get turned on by elbows.

Connor walked over to him, giving him that hesitant half-smile. “Hank, are you alright?” He sounded more like himself, not cheerful exactly, but — holy fuck, he smelled like Hank’s shampoo, too, and apparently Hank was a caveman because _that_ awoke an entirely animal side of him that wanted to bury its face in the crook of Connor’s neck and growl, ‘ _mine_.’

Hank cleared his throat. His throat was dry. “Yep. Fantastic.”

He stepped back. And Connor stepped forward, tilting his head, brow furrowing. “Hank? Your stress levels seem elevated.”

Stress levels. Ha. If stress was synonymous with painful arousal, then yes, Hank’s were probably a little high. “I’m fine.”

“I can tell you’re lying,” Connor said thoughtfully, eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be dishonest with your partner, Lieutenant.”

Hank groaned weakly. The thread of authoritative steel in Connor’s voice _really_ shouldn’t have done things to him. But oh, it did, especially when Connor took another step forward, this time well and truly inside Hank’s personal space, his face tilted up, expectant and suspicious all at once. Hank put his hand on his shoulder to stop him. Didn’t realize how different it would be with such a thin layer of fabric, because Connor was warm and real in a way he could _feel,_ a heat that radiated up his arm _._

Connor was so close, it would barely take a movement to kiss him. To pull him in close and wrap around him, touch his hair, his back, smooth a hand up underneath that shirt and press him into the wall. What was worse, the way Connor was looking at him, it felt like he might actually let it happen.

It took every ounce of his failing self control to step away. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, and Connor sighed.

Hank kept his eyes fixed in front of him as he got a bottle and two tumblers out of one cabinet. He deliberately chose one that was mostly empty, didn’t want things to get out of hand tonight, not with Connor here. Although somehow, he honestly felt that it was too late, it had all spiraled out of his control.

He took his time pouring them drinks, his eyes flicking over to where Connor had curled up on the couch, his eyes fixed on the record player with a wistful sort of fascination on his face.

Hank’s mouth curled into a smile. “You like it?”

Connor started, rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been doing that a lot lately. It was a sweet, human gesture. “It’s strange. The lyrics sound like they should be depressing, but…”

Hank sat next to him, the couch dipping under his weight. He handed Connor his glass, couldn’t help shifting towards him. “Should I put on something else _?_ _”_

Connor hummed softly. “No. The music just… I don’t know. It’s sort of… soothing. It reminds me of you.” His mouth twitched. “I think I might buy a couple of these to play at home.”

And Hank wasn’t sure where to even begin processing that. He couldn’t decide which part twisted him into knots more, the thought that Connor wanted to play Hank’s music at his apartment to be reminded of Hank, or the part where he apparently found the thought of Hank _soothing_.

Connor raised the glass to his face, sniffed it, peering at it suspiciously. Took a swig before Hank had a chance to ask him if he was absolutely _sure_ about that.

He tried not to laugh at the disgusted wince that passed over his face. Coughed to cover it up, not that Connor noticed through his spluttering.

“Jesus, Hank,” he choked out. “You drink this on _purpose_?” He stared at the glass as if it had offended him.  “I’m fairly sure paint thinner would have a similar effect.”

“It grows on you.”

Connor made a face. “Does it?”

“Unfortunately. This is what people do, Connor. They sit in their empty living rooms, listening to sad music and drinking their angst away with shit that burns on the way down. Figured you were overdue for one of those.”

“It’s not empty,” Connor muttered. He downed the rest of his whiskey, and this time did a better job of keeping it down, although there was still that little wince right at the end. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Hank sighed, prying the empty glass from Connor’s loose grip. He didn’t think he needed to say that when _he_ drank, he was alone more often than not. He didn’t want to think too hard about how this felt, sitting with Connor instead, his own glass nearly forgotten. Not entirely, never entirely, but enough to feel unfamiliar.

When Connor shifted closer, everything else fled. He reached to wrap his arm around him without thinking, and Connor’s weight sank into his side, sweet and solid, his head falling to Hank’s shoulder. He could hear Connor’s soft breathing, smell shampoo and whiskey. It shouldn’t have felt as natural as it did. Shouldn’t have stirred a fresh wave of want inside him.

But Hank had always done a lot of things he shouldn’t.

“I’m here,” he said, pressing his mouth to the top of Connor’s head. “Try and rest, Con.”

“Okay,” Connor said, his voice sleepy. “But don’t go anywhere.”

Hank kept his arm around him when he gulped down his own drink, the burn of it sweet and familiar. It pooled in him, not enough to get him buzzed but just enough to relax him into a space where his arousal didn’t matter anymore, didn’t terrify him, just sat there expectantly, attuned to Connor’s movements at his side. The twitch of his fingers, the little shifts of weight when Connor tried to get more comfortable.

He found himself reaching up absently to pet Connor’s hair. It slipped through his fingers smoothly, wrapped around them, and when Hank pressed into his scalp just a little harder, Connor’s breath caught in his throat, turned into something unsteady.

“Your hair is longer,” he grunted. “Thought I was imagining things.”

Connor shuddered. “Only a little.”

“I like it.” It curled very slightly in places when it was damp, and it was the perfect length for _this_.

Tomorrow he might regret doing it, upsetting the delicate balance of professionalism and friendship between them, but that was a problem for Future Hank.

Hank didn’t realize he’d drifted off himself until he felt Sumo nudge his leg expectantly. He started awake, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Sumo probably had to go out, and Hank had been too preoccupied with Connor to notice. Even now it was hard to get up, Connor warming his side as he dozed, his arm around Hank’s middle, head resting on his collarbone.

He disentangled himself gently, his heart clenching when Connor’s eyes snapped open, LED briefly flaring a vivid red.

“Hank?”

Hank reached out to smooth Connor’s hair back, threading his fingers through it, enjoying the low sigh it pulled from him. “Sumo has to go out. I’ll be back in five. Why don’t you get yourself to bed?”

Connor sat up, his cheeks faintly flushed. He gave Hank a look that seemed distinctly sad, though Hank couldn’t figure out why. “Okay.”

Sumo nudged Hank’s thigh with his nose again, woofed deeply. Hank got up, reluctant, something in him twisting at the thought at leaving Connor alone like this. But duty called, so he took Sumo outside, bundling up hastily against the cold.

The wind howled around him as he strode down the sidewalk as briskly as he could, Sumo sniffing around behind him. It really _was_ sort of unsettling. The sky was a dark and foreboding gray, the snow falling in chunks that appeared to be growing, drifting like volcano ash.

Hank walked around the block twice, and satisfied that Sumo was done, began to head back home. Connor was waiting for him, probably still feeling unsettled from whatever memories the storm had stirred up. And Hank didn’t want to think about it, but he liked this part. Feeling needed. Connor at his place and not somewhere across town, Connor wearing his clothes, Connor cuddling up to him on the couch.

With every passing day, it was getting harder to remember why he’d distanced himself in the first place. His reasons were still there, sure, but each time they crossed some kind of line, the fight they put up was weaker. Yes, he’d hurt Connor before, in ways he hadn’t deserved. Yes, he was his partner and in some small ways perhaps his mentor, and that made everything feel… complicated. And yes, Connor was new to all of this, new to living, new to being human, but for the first time Hank allowed himself to consider the possibility that he was also actually quite _good_ at all those things. Good enough to know his own feelings, good enough to set boundaries and enforce them. Good enough to deserve better than Hank second-guessing him when he said he was fine with something, that he wanted to go back to the way things were, to work, to _Hank_.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice, until Sumo barked sharply, that there was something distressing in the shadows by his house. His head swiveled to look at whatever had Sumo’s attention — and saw a man, standing under one of the windows, turned away from Hank but very obviously trying to peer inside.

“Hey!” Hank snapped, his hand going automatically for his gun as he stepped forward, rage churning deep in his gut. “The _fuck_ are you doing?”

The stranger started, whipped half around towards Hank’s voice, but only enough for Hank to glimpse the turned-up collar of his coat and a hat pulled low over his face.

“Don’t you dare move, you — _son of a—_ get him, Sumo!”

The man bolted, not towards the street but deeper down behind the houses, into the maze of walls and fences. Hank ran after him, heart pounding, Sumo barking into the darkness, even as he knew it was futile. He could hardly see in this storm, and the snow covered tracks quickly. The man had simply vanished, having leaped over some fence and ducked out of view. He could follow him, but Sumo was no scent-hound, and to what end? He couldn’t leave Connor alone, what if there were more of them?

He was an idiot. Death threats, Connor had been getting _death threats_ , and no one — not even Hank — had been taking it seriously enough. If he’d come home five minutes later —

He couldn’t think about it, refused to think about it. He’d seen Connor riddled with bullets exactly once, and it was one time too many. That was _never_ happening again.

Hank almost yanked the door off its hinges when he burst back inside, his heart in his throat, his hands shaking. He walked right into Connor, who was standing in the doorway with one hand already on the doorknob. Holding his gun.

“Is there anyone else inside?” Hank snapped.

“No. I heard you yelling, I went to see what was wrong.”

Hank looked down at him. Laughed almost hysterically, because Connor was still damp, barefoot. Apparently he’d been about to burst outside like _this_ because he’d heard Hank needed help. There was no trace of fear in his eyes, just that steely determination, and Hank couldn’t decide if he would have preferred throttling him or fucking him into the couch, because at this point it was anyone’s guess.

Hank rubbed his face. Fuck. _Fuck._ How close had this been to an absolute disaster? Five minutes, he’d been gone five minutes. How many people out there still wanted Connor dead?

Connor put his gun away, shut the door with a sigh. “Probably some thief, thought he was casing the place. Did you see his face?”

“No,” Hank said. “If you think that’s all that was, you’re _dangerously_ naive. Just what in the hell was your plan, anyway? Get yourself shot again? Had _that_ much fun the first time?” He knew. He was aware that he was overreacting, that he sounded panicked. But his heart wouldn’t slow, and everything felt like ice, and all he could think about was Connor, gunned down in Hank’s own fucking house, where he’d literally _just_ told him he was safe.

“You’re sure there’s no one home?”

Connor nodded. “I’ve already called this in. It’s probably nothing, but it’s still trespassing on private property, and—”

Connor made a noise of shock when Hank drew him into a hard embrace. He buried his face in the side of Connor’s neck, reeling from the cold, slimy feeling of his impotent fear. Squeezed Connor’s shoulders, his arms, his fingers, feeling the steady thrum of life and warmth under his hands. Connor didn’t seem to mind. He stroked the ends of Hank’s hair until Hank’s grip loosened and he could think again, and about something other than the layers of bulletproof bubble wrap he was going to have to buy.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he growled at Connor, still holding him. “Not until we catch whoever’s trying to mess with you.”

Connor shifted away, looking up at Hank with a bemused look. “That’s poor motivation for me to help with the investigation. You should really think of something better,” he chided.

Hank didn’t even have the energy to unpack that. “I’m serious. The next time you get threatening notes, letters, emails, fucking — messages in a bottle, carrier pigeons, you let me _know_. It’s literally my job to have your back.”

Connor’s smile was sly. He opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head. Then he raised his head, brows furrowing as he looked out the window through the crack between the curtains. “I think backup is coming.”

Sure enough, Hank heard the siren a moment later. He released Connor slowly, his chest heaving on a sigh. He didn’t like the suddenly grim expression on his face, or the tension in his shoulders, but he understood. After the night they’d both had, the last thing he wanted was to talk to more cops.

Connor groaned quietly, apparently listening to some radio communication. He shot Hank a look that was half amusement, half horror. “Backup is coming in the form of _Gavin_.”

And wasn’t _that_ just the cherry on top of the pile of bullshit.

 

 

                             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun DUUUUUUN *A wild Gavin appears*


	7. A New Lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was challenging to write, and I'm still not sure I have it the way I want it, but I wanted to get it out there. It was difficult to write Connor's current emotional state, so I hope I did it justice.

Connor felt too _drained_ to deal with this right now. He wanted to go back into the warmth and safety of Hank’s arms, the peace he’d found there earlier when he’d straddled some line between waking and sleep, feeling the weight of Hank’s hand in his hair.

He didn’t like the look on Gavin’s face. There was something gleeful and predatory in it all at once, something that spoke of Gavin’s proclivity for inflicting pain. Connor had to remind himself that he didn’t _have_ to take it anymore, that he was allowed to fight back. It wasn’t usually this difficult, but he was suddenly horribly tired, and in a way he hadn’t realized he could be. He didn’t know what it meant, only that he had to be vigilant, because if he let himself, he might forget something important.

If he did forget, he trusted that Hank wouldn’t allow Gavin to get truly vicious.

He didn’t really think the alcohol had affected him the way it was intended to affect humans, but — he felt soft somehow, unbalanced and vulnerable and without any protective layers. A cold, sick sensation curled through him, a certainty that Gavin wasn’t supposed to _see_ him like this, not exhausted and half-naked in the only place in the world that really felt good.

And that was another thing he didn’t want to think about, because he didn’t want this to _end_ and knowing that it was going to made his stress levels spike dangerously.

 Gavin’s hard gaze dragged down Connor’s body, then back up to his face, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he looked between him and Hank. Connor fought the urge to fidget, wished abruptly for his coin even though he knew it would make him look nervous, and he _wasn_ _’t._ He didn’t have a word for the feeling that he had right now.

“I knew it. No one goes from ‘fuckin’ androids’ to _fucking androids_ this quickly. So what is it, Anderson, his dick vibrate, or what?”

Connor’s back stiffened. He thought he should feel insulted, but he only felt sort of numb, whatever emotions he’d had winking out like streetlights in the night. “I’m afraid you’ll never have the opportunity to find out, Detective. Sorry to disappoint.”

Hank made an odd, choked noise in the back of his throat, but Gavin stepped towards him, something dark in his eyes.

“A couple of months ago, he hated you,” he said. His smile was flat and fleeting, and he shook his head, looking back at the Lieutenant. “Sorry, Anderson. I guess Cyberlife must’ve really outdone themselves in the tight ass department, for you to forget that you’re fucking this plastic thing.”

Connor stared at him. The words didn’t sting. They _didn_ _’t_. That’s not why he was here with Hank, not why Hank tolerated him, he’d never seen him as a _thing,_ not even when Connor had. And Hank had never done anything to imply he wanted more than friendship, never implied or acted as if Connor’s only value was to be used, although, God, he sometimes wished—

Hank stepped up next to him, his hand descending on Connor’s shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to snap him into his body. It was a painful, grounding touch that sent sparks through him, like something was short-circuiting. “I’m not gonna dignify that with an answer. Get the fuck out of my house, Reed.”

Gavin grinned. “Nah, I have to follow up on this. You called, and the calvary came.” He made a melodramatic gesture with his hand, like he was taking a bow before an audience. “At your service, et-cetera. Just make it quick. As hilarious as this is for me, I have places to be later.”

Connor pushed down — something. Disconnected it. It was surprisingly easy. “I’m not sure this is healthy, Detective. Perhaps you need a few more engaging hobbies, to keep your mind occupied with something that isn’t me or Hank.”

Gavin’s eyes flashed oddly, almost like something about that had hit a nerve. Well, that couldn’t be right. Gavin didn’t have any feelings besides sadism and rage. As evidenced by the moment he stepped forward, poked Connor’s chest. “Listen here, you piece of cheap shit —”

“Don’t touch me,” Connor said, something harsh and cold racing up his spine, something that reflected in his voice. Hank’s fingers on his shoulder squeezed, and then dropped away, even as Gavin waved him off and stepped back again.

Sumo stared at Gavin, a low growl building in the back of his throat, a silent vibration more felt than heard.

Gavin stared back, sniffed, and finally shrugged lightly. “Whatever.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, turning to glare at Hank with his chin tilted up.

It was a defensive posture, even if he didn’t know it. Connor allowed himself to feel the thrilling possibility that Gavin was maybe just a little bit afraid of him. Or of Sumo, but both the options were promising.

“So, let me get this straight. You and your plastic pet were here — instead of out working the case — _here_ , at your house, doing… Well, it doesn’t matter I suppose, even if it is disgusting _and_ unprofessional. You went home early, and then — what, exactly? There was a break in?”

Maybe it was Connor’s imagination, but he’d swear he could _hear_ Hank gritting his teeth. He butted in before Hank could say anything, because Hank had a temper and Reed would only take longer to leave if he got socked in the face. “Lieutenant Anderson went outside to walk Sumo. Six minutes and forty-three seconds later, I heard him yelling, so I got my weapon, but the trespasser had already fled.”

“He was fast,” Hank said. “I didn’t see his face, but he was standing by the window, trying to see inside. Bastard saw me and ran.”

A low shiver raced down Connor’s back, and he wondered what was wrong with him. This wasn’t the right time for this kind of feeling. Hank was angry, and Gavin Reed was here, and whatever peace Connor had felt earlier was shattered. But apparently his body hadn’t gotten the message, because it still reacted to the dark-chocolate sound of Hank’s voice when it went all low and gravelly like that. Something in him just… really wanted to melt at that sound, apparently regardless of circumstance. Was he defective, somehow? Leaking feelings someplace they had no business being?

Gavin’s eyebrows went up. “And you didn’t go after him?”

“My priority was making sure my _home_ was safe.”

“So why am I here, then? When I took the call I thought I’d at least get the pleasure of seeing one of you on the floor with a nosebleed or something, not this boring shit.”

“My mistake, Gavin,” Connor said, his voice cool. “When I notified the precinct, I only intended to start a record of incidents, in case the situation escalates. I had — mistakenly — assumed you’d have better things to do than personally follow up on my call. But it’s very sweet of you to care nonetheless.”

Reed’s eyes flashed to his. Connor knew that look, braced himself the moment he saw his fingers twitch into a fist. His software helpfully supplied six different ways to break his arm if needed, and in the split second that followed, Connor saw himself slamming him against the wall face-first, shattering either his nose or his jaw depending on how hard he wanted to push back. He didn’t _want_ that. He wondered if perhaps he should. He wondered which part of him just wanted to let this happen, the deviant part that was just tired, or the machine part that wanted to _give in_. To surrender. To obey.

He swallowed hard, an unfortunate human habit he’d picked up, but Gavin didn’t punch him. It still seemed likely he was going to try at some point, especially if Connor continued to antagonize him, but he only snorted, and gave a slow, rolling shrug. “Well. Since you idiots fucked up, I better investigate. Go look for this… alleged stalker of yours. What’d he look like?”

Hank ran his hand down his face. He was looking at Connor, his jaw set. “He was wearing a dark coat and hat, but under that — athletic. Maybe six foot two, six-three.” He frowned. “He wasn’t wearing any gloves. If he was stupid enough to touch the window before I showed up, we could pull some prints.”

“I’ll go look around,” Connor volunteered quickly. If there was evidence to find, he would find it, and he needed… some air, he thought, even though the blizzard outside still made him nervous. He thought it should be fine. He was ready for it now, and he wanted to know who had come around Hank’s house. Connor didn’t believe it had anything to do with him or the threatening notes, but it _could_ have something to do with Hank. And Hank was — important.

He avoided his gaze as he left the house, entirely forgetting to bother with an insignificant detail like a jacket, or shoes. Sumo bounded outside after him, sniffing at the air, pacing in wide circles.

The cold sting of the snow under his feet surprised him, the sensors in his skin going haywire as they encountered temperatures far below recommended. But oddly, the shriek singing through his limbs was good. Like the bite of Hank’s grip on his shoulder earlier.

He looked around, forcing a thread of fear from his mind. The blizzard was calmer, softer, the wind no longer howled. Hank was right behind him, growling something about Connor being an idiot, but the world still looked and felt real. There was no quiet, snow-dusted rose garden here. No Amanda. Just the familiar, comforting shadows behind Hank’s house.

He placed his hand against the glass pane of the window, frowning. “Are you sure he touched it?”

Hank shrugged. “Thought I saw him. Maybe not. He ran off that way.” He pointed between the houses, where the snow had been brushed flat by the wind, only a few furrows remaining.

Connor followed the trail, trying not to wade through it, weaving between walls and hedges, following the most likely path of escape. He frowned when he saw the neighbor’s chain-link fence in front of him. It was too high to jump or climb quickly. Hank should have caught the man, unless —

Hank shuffled up behind him, looking down at Connor with a silent question in his eyes. Connor sighed, staring past the fence. “Wait here.”

Climbing over it wasn’t hard, not even with his feet bare — if anything, it might have helped, although it did send another sting through him. He vaulted over it, landed softly on the ground on the opposite side, and walked off to where he saw the first bright spot, his vision zeroing in on the mark. He looked back at where Hank and Gavin stood behind the wire netting, both wearing oddly amusing expressions of surprise.

Connor squinted at the top of the fence. It was dark. They couldn’t see this. But he could. “The man you chased. He cut himself escaping. There’s a bit of fabric up there, must have snagged.” He met Hank’s eyes, feeling inexplicably grim. “And blue blood.”

Reed snorted at him. “So one of your tin buddies was here. Big fucking deal.”

Connor winced, because the probability of this being his fault suddenly crept up.  It could have been a lone android, indeed stalking Hank or casing the place for robbery. But the likelihood of that, with him being there, with the death threats, it was… abysmally low. He rubbed his face.

He knelt down, curling his fingers into the mound of snow, digging in and brushing a frozen spot under the layers of fluff. Bright blue, almost glowing, just barely there. He withdrew his hand, tasted it without thinking and winced. Stupid. He should’ve remembered. He knew full and well that Hank hated this part.

Gavin made a gagging noise behind him, and he heard a soft thump, a vicious curse.

Connor frowned at the message that popped up.

 

[ FRESH BLUE BLOOD ]

[ Serial Number - NA-9R349-0K942-0C291 ]

[ Model Number - UNKNOWN ]

 

He stood slowly, staring down at the ground. “I — am not sure what we’re dealing with. But I think we should canvass the neighborhood. Perhaps someone saw him.”

“Reed, you do it,” Hank said, sounding distressed. “Connor, we’re going back inside. My dick’s about to freeze off just looking at you.”

Connor dropped his hand, looked up at the swirling sky. “It’s alright, Lieutenant. I’m not cold.” All the cold was actually on the inside, filling him when he breathed, and it felt like a good thing more than bad.

“Well I _am,_ _”_ Hank muttered. “Fuck’s sake, Connor, come home.”

Connor felt like a vice was squeezing his chest. He really didn’t want this, but he had to, he had a job to do, and this — “I should follow up on this thirium. It’s… unusual. The model number is not in my database, but perhaps I can track the serial number. I need to reach out to a couple of contacts.”

“It can _wait_.”

“Far be it from me to interrupt,” Reed butted in, “But if you’re quite done being nauseating, I think I’ll take my shit and go. Whadd’ya got for me, robocop?”

Connor rattled off the serial number, walked up to the fence and hooked his fingers through the slender wire. Hank glared at him. “You’re going to be soaking wet the second you step inside. _Again_.”

“I’m sorry about getting your clothes all snowy. I’ll come back later if you want me to. It shouldn’t be long.”

Hank stared at him. He crossed his arms, and the weight of his gaze was almost a physical thing.

“I should come with you.”

“There’s no need for that, Lieutenant,” Connor said reasonably. “Someone should stay at the house. Just in case.”

Hank stared a moment longer. Then nodded heavily, looking down at Sumo by his heel. “Come back, and try not to take forever. He misses you when you’re not around.” He turned around without waiting for Connor’s response, heading back towards the house. Connor’s eyes flicked to Reed’s.

His eyebrows went up. “He’s forgotten what you are. I haven’t.”

Connor blinked. “Will you explain to me what I’ve done to make you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Connor,” Gavin drawled. “I just think you’re a glorified roomba that doesn’t know its place.”

Connor walked away. Gavin’s poison was imprecise, he spewed abuse at anyone and everyone who would listen, physical or verbal, it didn’t matter. This part wasn’t the painful part, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

It wasn’t true. Hank didn’t believe that. _Connor_ didn’t believe that.

Or… he hadn’t anyway, not for a while. But thinking back to the storm, thinking back to Amanda, he couldn’t help but feel something in him sinking at the thought that Gavin might be more accurate in his assessment than Connor wanted him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this everything felt off for so long, I'm not sure any of it looks right. But my plans for the next chapter are already shaping up to be a lot better, so don't worry, I hope to deliver something more satisfying and exciting in the next couple of chapters.


	8. A New Fear

Connor returned late, with his shoulders sagging and his clothes frozen stiff to his body, his gaze still skirting away from Hank’s like he was ashamed. He knocked on Hank’s door so softly Hank almost hadn’t heard, had thought that maybe Connor hadn’t wanted him to hear. But he’d been waiting, more worried than he cared to admit. Of course he’d heard.

He looked like he needed a hug. Hank stepped forward hesitantly, but the look Connor shot him was almost frightened, his hands clenching at his sides. Hank frowned at the stiffness of his movements. There was no way he wasn’t frozen completely over, but if he was too upset to be touched, Hank had no idea what to do.

“I didn’t find anything,” he said finally, bitterness lacing his voice. “Markus might know someone who knows something, but we have to wait until tomorrow.” He ran a hand down his face, sighed and leaned back against the table, shook his head. “I — failed. I should’ve—”

“Connor, shut up,” Hank said. He reached out again, riding out Connor’s flinch and gently laying his hand over his icy fingers. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You followed a lead, it didn’t pan out. That’s ninety percent of police work.”

“It is my fault,” Connor said, distraught. “This is all me. I thought you were wrong, I thought —“ He cut off, biting his lip and bowing his head.

Hank ran his hand up his arm, cupping the back of his elbow. “It’s not you.”

“I shouldn’t even be here. I should be somewhere far away. It’s not safe.”

“I told you already, kid —“

“It’s not safe for _you_ ,” Connor snapped. They stood in the silence, facing each other, Connor’s eyes shuttered.

Hank took a deep breath. First things first, Connor needed to be warmed up. The emotional breakdown, he wasn’t sure how to deal with yet. This felt beyond the scope of his limited expertise and whiskey. But the frustration, that he could deal with.

“I’m a cop, Connor. I’ve been a cop far longer than you’ve been alive, and I’m probably going to be one until the day that I die. I’m not afraid of some piece of shit coward that thinks coming around here at night is going to freak me out.”

Connor looked up at him. “Then maybe you should be afraid of _me_.”

Hank snorted. Frowned when Connor looked away, his expression soft and troubled, his light flickering yellow.

He crossed his arms. “Bullshit, Connor. I don’t know why you think I should be afraid of you, but I can tell you that’s never gonna happen.”

Connor blinked, then shook his head. “I have to go home. Every moment that I’m here, I put you at risk. If someone wants to hurt me —”

“You belong _here_ ,” Hank said, trying not to think about how much he meant that. “That’s not up for debate tonight. Tomorrow, you can do whatever the hell you want, but right now, you need to be taken care of.”

Connor stared at him reproachfully. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can kick ass with both hands tied behind your back, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t know the first thing about taking care of yourself.”

“And you do?”

“Better than you,” Hank snapped, something in him cracking and yawning wide open before he could stop the words. “I’m not saying you’re not smart, Connor. But I’m also not the one who had one shit night, and then walked out into a blizzard alone, wearing a t-shirt and sweats and _nothing else_.”

“You’re right,” Connor bit out. “Burying your feelings in whiskey and Russian roulette is actually _much_ healthier.”

Hank straightened up. He was surprised at the hurt that lanced through him, although perhaps he shouldn’t have been. Turns out, Connor knew how to go right for the jugular.

“ _Fuck_ you, for bringing that up.”

Connor looked at him like he’d been hit. “Hank—”

Hank looked away. “And fuck you _again_ , because you haven’t been through — what I’ve been through and you _still_ asked me for a drink tonight.”

“Hank, I’m sorry—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he managed. “You wanna lash out, find someone else to do it at. Or find a way to do it without bringing _that_ into it, because I can’t, I can’t _think_ about it.”

Although, honestly, who had taught him that? It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out whom Connor took his emotional cues from. This is why this could never work, why it was wrong, why despite his best intentions it would _always_ be a bad idea, no matter how much Hank wanted it to be otherwise. Why even friendship shouldn’t be in the cards.

Hank was a poor example for someone impressionable, and an even poorer partner to him because of it. He couldn’t _do_ this without fucking it up, and he couldn’t even be angry at Connor.

How long before he slipped up again? The last couple of months had been — better, certainly, but how long before he cracked under the weight of everything again, how long before he _remembered_ how fucked things were? How long before he remembered that life was supposed to be crushing him under its weight?

Did he really _want_ the possibility of Connor coming by one day and finding Hank had finally cracked, finally worked up the nerve to just — end things?

It was too much — responsibility, yearning, the — everything, all at once. And on top of it all was Connor, dripping driven snow onto Hank’s floor, looking so miserable that Hank felt something protective — _paternal_ — stirring in his chest, along with a host of feelings that didn’t belong anywhere _near_ that. He was disgusted with himself, with the situation and the mess that _he_ had caused, _he_ had allowed. It should never have gotten this far.

Connor bowed his head, visibly agitated, his eyes flicking from window to window like he was looking for an exit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t. I just —” he cut off, running his hand through his hair. “I’ll leave.”

 _Oh for fuck_ _’s sake_. “I don’t want you to _leave_ , you moron. I want you to _stay_. That’s what this is all about.”

Wait. Wasn’t he supposed to be discouraging this?

Connor looked over at him, his lips pressed together. Fixed his eyes back on the floor. “I’m… confused,” he admitted finally. He looked like the words physically pained him to say.

 Hank sighed. “Which part confuses you?”

“I thought I was beginning to understand emotions better,” he said. He spoke slowly, hesitating, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I don’t understand, Hank. You — you pushed me away before. Now you want me here. Sometimes you act like I’m your partner, but other times you treat me like a child. You touch me, but when I reach for you, you move away. I don’t know what you _want_ from me.”

_I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner... your buddy to drink with. Or just a machine, designed to accomplish a task._

Hank wanted so many things. But more important than anything else —

“I want to do right by you, Connor,” he said, before the words he was thinking could sneak past his lips.

Connor stared at him. “I said what you want _from_ me, not _for_ me.”

Hank almost laughed. “Fine, smartass. I want you to be happy.”

Connor gave him an exasperated look. “Try again.”

Hank stepped closer. He really didn’t want to do this right now, he _really_ didn’t, he was too tired for it. “I want you — around. I want you happy and safe, and nearby if possible, and maybe you don’t understand, but those things _are_ for me, Connor.”

Connor frowned slightly, processing this. “Why?”

Hank blinked. “Why what?”

“Why do you want me here, Hank?” His voice was quiet. “Because the more I think about it, the more I think that you’re right. I— I’m a pain in your ass, and even after everything —”

Hank sighed deeply. “Connor, if I had a dime for every time I was a dick to you because I was angry, or hurt — I’d be richer than Carl Manfred. I want you to stay because I worry, and I worry because I _care_ about you.”

Connor’s eyes flicked to his. Soft. Disbelieving. Hank scratched his chest, offered his hand. “Come on. We’re putting this away for later. It’s past your bedtime. Past mine, too.”

Connor shook his head. “I don’t think I can sleep tonight.”

“Connor—”

“No, I— I really just—”

“Indulge me. Come lie down. If you can’t sleep, I’ll find you something to read.”

Connor stared at him so long that Hank wondered if he was going to have to sling him over his shoulder like a caveman, but then he twitched, and reached hesitantly for Hank’s hand.

Hank dragged him to his room, the pit inside him settling slightly. Whatever misgivings he had, they could wait.

“Change,” he grumbled at Connor, pushing him through the door. “You know where the clothes are.”

Connor leaned against the wall. Blinked. “I can’t.”

Hank froze. “Why?”

“I’m not sure I can move.”

“ _What_?”

“I — it was colder than I anticipated. I don’t think the damage is permanent, but I’m finding it difficult to coordinate my movements. Perhaps I could just — stand over here until I thaw out a bit and—”

Hank cursed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sit down. Come on, on the bed.” He didn’t wait to see if his instructions were followed, just went straight for the closet to dig up a new shirt, sweatpants, the first soft hoodie his hands touched.

He turned back to Connor, who was sitting gingerly at the edge, his eyes closed. Set down the folded clothes next to him, trying to figure out the best way to do this.

His mind settled on _quickly_. “Try and lift up your arms for me,” he muttered, sitting down and tugging at the edge of the frozen shirt. He tried to keep his hands from touching Connor’s skin, but could he really help it if his knuckles brush against him inadvertently? Hank thought not. This was awkward enough without painstaking attempts to not touch him.

“Do you need another shower?”

Connor shook his head. Hank nodded, ignoring the way his face heated as he peeled the damp, frosted layers of cloth away, pulling the shirt up over his head. Connor hadn’t lied — he was shit at helping with this, his movements awkward and clumsy and — shy, somehow, like at least part of him was hesitating, trying to shield himself from Hank’s eyes. So he kept them on Connor’s face politely, or at least tried to.

It wasn’t easy. Connor just… he looked soft, and vulnerable. There were hints of what looked like muscle on him, but nothing sharp or angular, just places Hank wanted to press his fingers into. Shadows. Freckles.

He pressed his palm to Connor’s side without thinking, trying to rub some heat back into him. He was still too cold, cold enough that a small shiver went through him and Hank frowned, shushing him, putting his hands on his ribs and pulling him a little closer.

Connor looked up at him, and they both froze, and Hank could have _kicked_ himself for creating this situation too because any more and Connor would have been in his lap. Connor, who was staring at Hank with an expression that looked so, _so_ much like longing that—

It _was_ longing.

_Fuck._

“Hank?” he asked, frowning. “I— did I do something wrong?”

Hank exhaled slowly. “No.”

“You look angry.”

Hank forced his expression to smooth out. “I’m not.”

And Connor, damn him, reached out and hesitantly put one hand on Hank’s knee. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong? Hank was just staring, trying _not_ to stare, his mouth dry, his eyes hot. No. No, this was going to be _so_ much more difficult to control if it was _mutual_.

“ _Hank_.”

Fuck. How did he sound _breathless_? How?

Hank pulled his hand back. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice hardly cracking.

Connor shifted slightly, not giving an inch of space. He hovered right within reach, and Hank sort of wanted to cry, because the soft expression of concern on his face did nothing but make him look even more like some fucking renaissance painting. The light in his room was dim and warm, and Connor was — mussed, his hair in disarray, his cheeks flushed and the freckles stark against his pale skin.

 _Fuck_.

“Hank, you’re scaring me,” he said, shifting again until his thigh was pressed to Hank’s, leaning in to look at him, tilting his head.

Hank swallowed hard. “You’re still icy.”

Connor’s eyes widened slightly and he shrank back, his smile light and apologetic. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Hank swallowed again. “It’s fine, let’s just — finish getting you changed.”

He managed — somehow — to keep his eyes averted for the rest of it, even though he still had to provide help, given how clumsy Connor somehow managed to be. It was awkward as hell and he definitely almost caught an elbow with his face at some point, but he _couldn_ _’t l_ ook again. Felt dirty just for thinking the things that he did, all the shit talk Reed had been spouting coming back to him.

He refused to speculate on what Connor did or didn’t have below the belt. It wasn’t his business, and it didn’t matter. Connor was just — Connor. He was perfect the way he was, and deserved someone who would be kind to him, someone who would _not_ be thinking about biting him right now, because honestly, where had _that_ urge come from?

 Once Connor was all dressed again, he pushed him down on the bed with a light shove to his chest, his mouth quirking. Then he saw which hoodie he’d put on Connor, and groaned, because of all the ones he could have picked, he’d stuffed him into the one that said ‘ _fuck the police_ ’ in jagged print.

And Hank. Hank _was_ the police, so really, perhaps it would be best to volunteer his services—

“What’s so funny?”

Hank coughed. “Nothing.” His hand lingered on Connor’s chest as he looked down at him, affection leaving him warm. He reached for Connor’s hair, running his hand through it, smirking at Connor’s sigh. He could get used to this part.

“Puppy,” he muttered.

Connor’s eyes snapped open. “Hm?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. C’mere.” He tugged Connor’s legs up into his lap, rubbed the top of one foot, wincing at how cold it felt. “Next time you go out, put some goddamn shoes on.”

Connor hummed. “Okay.”

“Are you gonna be okay?”

Connor nodded. Hank pinched his toes, rubbed the arches, pressed his thumb behind his ankle, trying to share the warmth of his hands. He didn’t mean anything by it, but Connor shifted restlessly, something breathless like a laugh bubbling out of him. Not quite. But close. He looked up at Hank, evidently annoyed. “What are you doing?”

“Warming you up.” It was mostly true. Finding out that Connor was ticklish was a side bonus.

Connor evidently didn’t buy this, because he threw one of the pillows at Hank’s head. It hit him square in the face, bouncing off him and then off the bed and to the floor, and Hank doubled over, trying not to wheeze with suppressed laughter.

“You little shit,” he said, fighting a smile.

He looked down at Connor, curled into the sheets, his face buried in the pillow Hank slept on. The hoodie had rolled up, exposing a pale stretch of his midriff. There was a tantalizing freckle on his right hip, just above the waistband, one he wanted to smooth his thumb over. Then maybe press his lips to it, see if he could make Connor squirm in other ways.

“Hank, you’re stressed again,” Connor mumbled. “Don’t make me come over there.”

Hank snorted, resting his hand on Connor’s shin. “What are you gonna do, interrogate me?”

“Mhm.”

He shifted to sit up properly on the bed, tucking the blanket around Connor. This way, it was almost safe to touch his shoulder, to rub a circle into the middle of his spine. “Well, I ain’t afraid of no androids.”

Connor’s LED spun yellow. He blinked at Hank, first confused by this tone, then outraged. “Is that a reference to _Ghostbusters?_ My database — _”_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hank deadpanned. “But I’ll have you know, you’ve brought shame and dishonor to this home. No more of this ethereal android database knowledge. I’m making you sit through every single one of those goddamn movies this Saturday.”

“Maybe I don’t want to see it.”

“You’re dead to me.”

Connor’s mouth quirked, but the way he looked at Hank, it was like he was making sure it was really a joke. Hank let a smile steal onto his face.

He could still feel that Connor was too cold, even through the thick fabric. He thought about it for a second, decided to say _screw it_ , and stretched out to lie down on his side, wrapping one arm around him, placing his hand on the small of his back. Under the blankets and the hoodie, but over the shirt, over the spot where he could feel the hollow of his spine.

He rubbed a circle there, frowning, propping his head up on his hand. “Is this helping at all?”

Connor’s eyes were still closed, his LED a steady blue. His breathing sounded oddly shallow. “Yes.”

He looked so innocent like this, Hank’s heart squeezed, a familiar fear thrumming through his veins. He was so, so afraid of screwing this up.

Connor sighed, his eyes opened, and he looked at Hank. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

“I doubt it.”

Connor shifted closer, and Hank froze, because his arm tightened without him meaning to, and because Connor made a soft, sleepy sound that shot straight through Hank like a bolt of electricity.

They’d hugged before. This wasn’t that different.

Except for the part where they were in Hank’s bed, Connor’s lashes low, his face lax. This was — sweeter. Intimate. Hank gathered him close, heart in his throat, thinking about how different this would be if he was allowed all the things he wanted. He could hear Connor’s unsteady breathing, felt him shift slightly under the blankets, smelled the snow on his skin. He thought of how it would be, if he could skim his hand up and under his shirt, trail a line of kisses down his neck, press him into the bed and _force_ him to forget whatever was making him feel afraid.

Connor’s arm snaked around his middle, so hesitant he barely felt the weight of it. Hank pressed his palm to his back. Ran it up and down slowly, feeling the structure of his shoulders, his spine, the components that masqueraded as flesh and bone. He felt good, surprisingly soft, and slowly but surely, he warmed up under Hank’s attention, his eyes drifting shut again.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “I was really cold.”

The knife in Hank’s heart twisted, and he closed his eyes. “Anytime.”

His breath caught when Connor closed the distance left between them, until his head rested against Hank’s chest, his ear pressed to his sternum. A warm tingle crept down his spine when Connor’s fingers dipped just under the edge of his t-shirt, brushing the skin above his waistband. He waited for him to move his hand, either away or — elsewhere, but he stayed put, nothing but four tiny, warm points of contact against him. Just fingertips that had no business making him feel the way they did.

He couldn’t stay. Not much longer, not without doing something he was really going to regret later. But he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet. All the worry he’d felt earlier had drained out of him, replaced by a warmth he couldn’t place. Connor was safe. He was warm, and he was _here_. Everything else felt… secondary.

He fell asleep with his android tucked into his arms, one hand cupping the back of his head, keeping it close to his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was a small bit late, but it's also a little longer, so I hope that makes up for it. Enjoy the reprieve...


	9. A New Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illustration at the end this time. This one's a bit early! :D It was really fun to write *and* draw.

Connor woke with a start, his eyes snapping open into the darkness of the room.

For too long, he didn’t understand, he didn’t know where he was, and his breathing refused to return to normal, his chest heaving as if oxygen would somehow improve the situation. He felt suffocated and adrift all at once, and the terror that thrummed through him was all the worse for not having an identifiable source. How was he supposed to fight it if he didn’t know what the threat was?

Then an arm tightened around his middle as Hank stirred, fingers drifting across Connor’s shoulder, clumsy and searching, and memory returned. Not a good thing, because the first thing it conjured was the feeling of Hank’s hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into him, trying to get him warm.

Connor shuddered. In sleep he was bolder, his grip firm and verging on possessive, but it still wasn’t enough. Hank was deeply asleep, weak with it, and distressingly _human_ even when he was awake. Not that it mattered. He would never ask for the thing Connor wanted to offer.

Connor breathed shallowly, his face buried in the pillow, trying to pull himself together. Hank was pressed stiffly to his side, but he’d slung his arm and one leg low over his, keeping him in place. The bedroom was too hot, or maybe Connor had just overheated from stress, because he felt the sudden urge to swing open all the windows and stick his face into the snow outside.

Hank sighed, his breath stirring Connor’s hair. It sent a spike of _— something_ — through him. A want so sharp that he bit down on his lower lip, humming with frustration. He had to just — stay still. Not move any closer. Even though he _always_ wanted to be closer. Self control was easy though. It was maybe the one thing Connor was better at than being a detective.

And then Hank’s sigh turned into a groan, and he turned his face into the crook of Connor’s neck, the coarse hairs on his jaw scraping pleasantly against his skin, sparking little starbursts of heat in their wake.

Connor jumped up so fast he fell right off the bed, harder and more undignified than he was comfortable with anyone witnessing. Immediately, he felt cold, all parts of him feeling the keen absence of Hank. He wanted to go back. He wished he hadn’t woken up.

“Connor? Fuck are ya doin’?” Hank mumbled without opening his eyes.

Connor swallowed tightly. “Go back to sleep,” he said, briefly leaning his forehead on the edge of the bed. It smelled like Hank — his mellow soap, a bare hint of alcohol, but under that, the unmistakable, delicate chemical balance of his scent, his sweat, nothing but him.

He didn’t want to leave, but it was precisely why he had to. Better now than in a couple of hours when dawn broke, when Hank would inevitably decide he had to let Connor down easy, awkwardly explain why things between them had to stay professional from now on. Better now, before Connor did something hopelessly stupid to scare him away for good.

His fingers clenched in the sheet, the silence wrapping around him like a blanket. Actually, if he just stayed still like this, maybe he could stay a little while longer.

Hank sat up abruptly, bedsprings creaking under his weight as he shifted up onto his elbow. He reached for Connor, his hand finding his hair first, then moving to his forehead, his cheek, something halting and sweet in that motion. Connor cursed himself for waking him up. Sleep was precious, and seeing Hank relaxed at all was rare.

“Connor? What happened?”

Connor closed his eyes, his face tingling. He didn’t really have words for the things he felt. This happened with distressing frequency, but especially when Hank touched him. “I have to go.”

“The fuck you do,” Hank grumbled, his voice warm and groggy. His fingers pressed into Connor’s scalp, combing through his hair, the motion firm and soothing. Connor felt something in him physically _break_. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t,” he choked out, shutting his eyes. “I can’t do this. Please, just—”

“Hey. Hey, hey, now, relax.” The hand drifted to the back of Connor’s neck, the calluses on his fingers scraping against his skin, and Connor — he really _couldn_ _’t_ with this anymore, he couldn’t stand the casual touching, the way Hank seemed to unlock him somehow without even trying, without _caring_.

“Calm down and tell me what happened.”

_I woke up next to you. I want that every day._

Connor didn’t dare say it out loud. He shook his head, his breath catching somewhere on some strangled noise of frustration.

Hank shifted so he could slide down the bed and to the floor to sit next to Connor. He tugged him closer, shuffled so that he was facing him, his thigh pressed to Connor’s hip. He cupped his face in both of his hands, staring at him intently, his brow furrowed, demanding - _forcing_ \- eye contact.

He swore, his left thumb smoothing over Connor’s cheekbone and then his temple, his fingers tickling Connor’s hairline. He was close enough for Connor to feel his warmth and smell his shampoo, see the crow’s feet around his eyes, evidence that once upon a time Hank’s smiles had been wide and genuine.

“Connor, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Hank released him abruptly. Connor almost swayed to follow his hands, bit his lip when he saw the flat look in his eyes.

“That would be a lot more convincing if you didn’t have a fucking mood ring attached to your face. I don’t like it when you lie to me,” Hank warned.

Connor looked away. “I can’t tell you,” he amended, because he didn’t _want_ to lie to Hank, but he —

“Why the fuck not?”

Connor sighed, pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. It never really helped, but there was a steady pain building in his cranium, and he wanted it _gone_.  “I just can’t.”

“That’s not an answer.” And then Hank grabbed both of Connor’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face, leaning in to rest his forehead against Connor’s. And —

_Oh_.

“Connor?”

Connor blinked. Hank’s hands eased off his wrists, returned to his face, holding it still. He felt trapped, and it should  have scared him, but — instead, he was surrounded, settled, warmed by Hank’s soft breaths and the hands steadying him, attuned to the way he held himself and to the sound of his heartbeat in the space between them, too fast to be relaxed.

Hank’s hands slipped lower, cupping the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing his jaw. They found the sensitive spots behind his ears, and Connor couldn’t help leaning into the pressure then, a shiver rolling through him, his lips parting on a shaky exhale.

“Don’t go,” Hank said roughly.

Connor shifted without thinking, a minute change of angle that had their lips almost touching. He hadn’t intended to do that — or at least, he didn’t think he had. It was suddenly hard to breathe; it felt like standing on the rooftop again, staring down at a vertigo-inducing abyss. Connor wanted desperately to cross that last distance between them.

He looked up, his eyes meeting Hank’s, and there was something charged in the blue of them. An electricity that threatened to pull him forward. Except — he thought that perhaps Hank wanted this, but he didn’t want to be _wrong_ , even though his software helpfully informed him the likelihood of that was in the single-digits. He wanted to be _sure_ , he wanted Hank to take that step towards him for once.

Connor waited. Finally closed his eyes on a sigh, trying to stamp down his disappointment. It was fine. This was fine. He didn’t need this to be happy, he just —

Hank’s grip on him tightened and he leaned in, and the moment his warm lips brushed against Connor’s, they were so hesitant it could have been an accident. He drew back almost immediately, but then he sighed and his fingers slipped into Connor’s hair, combing through it slowly. He was gentle as he tilted Connor’s face up, silently asking for permission.

Connor tried to recall the research he’d conducted on the topic of seduction, but his brain was clearly misfiring, because the only thing he could think was _finally_. Also, _yes_. 

And then the phone rang, shredding through the comforting silence, making them both jump.

“Oh for _fuck_ _’s_ sake,” Connor hissed when a corresponding chime in his head shrieked that Fowler needed them both _immediately,_ a red alert flaring across his vision. It was so loud it could have woken the dead, and what the hell was so important right now, anyway? Rude, is what that was. The internal messaging system was for emergencies only, so —

Hank fumbled to grab his phone of the nightstand behind Connor, barked an irritated “What?” into the speaker. Connor clung to Hank’s shirt as he pulled away, all the warm tingles draining out of him, replaced by a dull, painful throb.

Hank’s eyes snapped up to his as he listened to the voice on the other end, his face falling.

“Got it,” Hank said, his voice sharp, brows furrowing as he ended the call, and Connor frowned because Hank always groused and fought tooth and nail about these sorts of things.

“What happened?”

“Come on,” Hank muttered. His eyes flicked to Connor’s, and he winced. “There’s been an incident, officers reported missing.” His expression darkened, and he looked away as he moved to get up. “They need a negotiator on the scene.”

 


	10. A New Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry this took so long, guys. I had a couple of exams and the time really got away from me. X_X This shouldn't happen again to this degree, as I think the following chapters won't be quite as challenging for me to write. 
> 
> That said, there are new tags for this chapter. Things start to get a bit darker here, so I'm throwing up a general content warning for explicit violence and death, as well as general ignorance of police procedure. x'D I tried. But I have much to learn and so very little time.

Connor shouldn’t have gone in alone.

A group of humans had broken into an android shelter. Invading one at all was a dirty move in the first place, cruel and fucked considering the patrons were overwhelmingly refugees, abuse victims, even children. But Hank guessed that was the price of having blood that was conveniently stored in bulk and could be turned into hard drugs.

And then shots were fired, and everything already bad had gone to complete shit.

They were parked in front of the huge, four-story colonial building. A maze on the inside, the blueprints for it several renovations out of date. By the time Hank and Connor had shown up, everything had spiraled out of control — the reasons for it unclear, but only one conclusion reasonable — what had been a break-in had turned into half-hostage situation, half-skirmish, and that sending in the troops was unwise until they knew more about what the hell was actually going on. The first responders on the scene had unwittingly gone right in. And after a brief hailstorm of gunfire, none had returned or so much as gotten in touch.

Hank’s body was a single ball of agonizing tension. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. The last time he’d been this worried —

But no. No, this was nothing like that. Connor wasn’t hurt, wasn’t even injured, there was nothing to be concerned about. They’d done this before, together, and Connor was fast and clever enough to dodge literal bullets. Actually, it was a good thing that Hank was out here, because the last time —

The last time Connor got hurt, it had been to save him.

Suddenly he could _smell_ thirium on his clothes. Felt the impact of the bullets, felt the shocked, choked-back breath of pain against his chest as Connor tackled him to the floor. Saw his face, soft and slack after Hank had rolled him over, because he’d been lying face down in a growing pool of blue blood, too still and silent, with half of a mild smile on his face.

Eight bullets. Hank had counted. He’d wondered, afterwards, whether the Connor that had returned was the same one that had saved him, or a cheap, featureless imitation. And then the stupid boy had almost done the same thing again when they were in the Cyberlife tower. And his voice had shaken when he’d apologized to Hank, and when he’d talked about _Cole_ , and Hank wasn’t sure how or when but somewhere between those two moments he’d realized that he _needed_ Connor to be okay.

He tried to breathe, pinched the bridge of his nose.

When had he become this goddamn soft?

He clutched his headset, his heart pounding, desperate for the crackle of static and soft shift of movement on the other end. He ignored the look that Reed shot him, tried not to think too hard about the sort of expression that might be on his face.

It was taking too long for Connor to get in touch.

“I swear to Christ, Anderson, pull yourself together or I will _end_ you,” Reed snapped finally, shooting Hank an irritated look. They were sitting too close together in the SWAT van, confined and relegated to watching from the sidelines, both ready to claw at the walls even if Reed would never admit it. He’d been the one to call in this mess, apparently, and it was making him more of an asshole than usual.

Allen’s men were on standby. Meanwhile, Hank was just… here. Waiting. And didn’t that bring back a world of exciting memories.

“What’s taking so long? Your bitch finally break or something? He’s _useless_.”

“Fuck off,” Hank said.

Reed’s eyes were cold. “At this rate the only thing he’s good for is cannon fodder.”

Hank stiffened. He didn’t need the reminder that Connor had willingly entered a situation in which getting shot at was pretty much a given, and getting _shot_ almost more so, considering all the care Allen and the SWAT team had for Connor.

The thought of it made his stomach twist, the feeling sick and familiar. “Shut it,” he said curtly. “I’m trying to listen.”

“What, like you can’t just get a new toy if this one gets shot to shit?”

“ _Hank_?” Connor’s voice cracked across the speaker a second later, and Hank forgot his anger through the sheer force of his relief.

He inhaled sharply. He was too old and too experienced to have this kind of reaction, and it was a useless one besides. He couldn’t screw this up with something as stupid as his own nerves.

“Right here, kid. Status update?”

“ _There’s... a lot of injured androids on the way up. A few humans. They need medical assistance._ ”

Fuck. “Allen’s men?”

_“No. I’m going to look for them. Linus says they were being kept down in the west wing, near the kitchens_.”

Hank exhaled. “Keep us posted.”

“ _I would share footage, but Linus has just informed me I’m not permitted. Seems that him and the human in charge are — at a stalemate.”_

Linus being the shelter overseer, and the android who had wirelessly reached out to Connor, serving as their line of communication with the hostage takers. He told Connor where to go, or at least — where the human leader, name unknown, had told him Connor should go in order to negotiate their escape. Hank had never so much as seen the android’s face, but he was really starting to resent the bastard.

His anxiety spiked as Connor moved down the hallway and towards the epicenter of this entire mess, where the some of the shelter staff had gotten caught up in defending their most vulnerable refugees. The intel was a clusterfuck of outdated and incomplete information. No one knew exactly how many were inside, how many were outright hostages and how many hiding throughout the building.

This whole damn operation was taking too long. They were in the dark too long.

Hank ran a hand through his hair. It was shaking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this stressed. Or, actually, he could. And that didn’t bear thinking about, and he stamped it down firmly, because then any hope of holding it together and being useful would be gone.

Three gunshots ripped through the static silence on his headset. A soft huff like a single breath, and a hard thump that had Hank walking off for the van door. Reed stepped into his path, his eyes dark as he listened, jaw clenched, putting his hand against Hank’s chest as if the fucking _pipsqueak_ could stop him.

“Stay put. I’m going in,” Hank snapped into the microphone. Connor would hear him. He had to. The alternative was too horrifying to contemplate.

“ _I’m fine, I wasn’t hurt,”_ Connor said, and maybe it was Hank’s imagination, but he sounded breathless.

“Where are you?”

“ _Hank —_ ”

Another series of gunshots. Hank’s heart dropped somewhere to his stomach, his breath stolen away by his fear. Reed was no obstacle. Nothing was. Screw everyone, there was no way Hank was leaving Connor alone in there for another second.

He shoved Gavin away and crawled out of the van, striding over to where Allen stood, tense and pale as he listened with his face turned into the chapping wind, contemplating and wringing his hands, apparently, for all the use he was being.

Hank watched the windows, hoping for a glimpse. Snow drifted in a cold, stinging flurry around him, settling into a thin layer of frost on everything it touched.

“It’s time to call this. The situation is out of control, my partner is getting shot at, and we have no hope of saving anyone if we don’t intervene,” he snapped. “They’re not playing nice anymore, Allen. They’re desperate. You know what happens when they’re desperate.”

“ _I’ve neutralized a lone attacker,_ ” said Connor’s voice, cool and impassive. “I _believe he was acting on his own._ ”

“Do not engage,” Allen said with a thunderous frown on his face. “You are not to engage. You are not to fight them. You’re only there to communicate, report, and get my men back. That is an _order_ , rookie.”

Hank gritted his teeth. “Connor’s not any use to any of us if you get him killed.”

Allen shot him a venomous look. He opened his mouth to say something.

A window on the top floor exploded outwards, raining broken glass over them, a ball of smoke and flames curling out of it and twisting into the air. It rattled Hank’s bones, his eardrums, the flare of it blinding and hot.

The connection to Connor severed abruptly.

Allen cursed. Waved his SWAT gorillas towards the door, the message clear.

Hank wasted no time following them in.

The halls in the colonial were narrow and dim, all small windows and dark wallpaper, and the sight that greeted Hank as he stepped foot through the door was immediately grim; an android lay curled on the floor in a puddle of thirium, green eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Hank swallowed tightly as he stepped around him, glancing down the shadowed length of the hallway. The SWAT team made their way down the twisting corridors, trying to spread out and control the chaos. There was shouting. And then again, gunshots, coming from upstairs and further down towards the center, where the dining halls were.

But where the fuck was Connor?

Hank strode from room to room, pistol in hand, eyes watering from the sting of the smoke that was beginning to swirl through the air. Everything smelled like dust and fire, each room was small and dim, and as he opened doors and looked through them to get his bearings, he found civilians hiding behind doors and turned beds or tables, their eyes haunted and afraid.

“Get out,” he snapped at them. The whole place was probably going to go up in flames any minute now. It was dangerous to go out into the open, but their chances were better than sitting here and burning to death. “Come on, out, head for the doors. You know where they are.”

One of the androids whimpered and shied from him as if struck, trying to squeeze into the gap between a ratty couch and a wall.

His heart clenched.

He had to find Connor. But he couldn’t leave them here like this either.

“Come on,” he said, more gently when he saw the cat she had in her arms; a scraggly, grumpy creature wrapped in a towel. He held out his hand, tucking his weapon away. “I’m not gonna’ hurt you, but you need to go.”

She hesitated, placed her hand in his. It was small, but her grip was strong as she got up smoothly, her eyes still wider, one arm wrapped around her companion protectively. Hank realized with a twist in his heart that she was little more than a teenager, all gangly and awkward and tiny as she stumbled past him to find the exit.

Hank began to usher the androids out the back. He couldn’t find them all, no way in hell, there were God knows how many hiding away somewhere, but — the ones here, at the very least, the ones he knew he could point towards the doors before the thieves found their way back to them.

“Hank!”

Oh, thank _fuck_. Hank whirled to find Connor, his heart almost giving out entirely when he saw his face, drawn and stressed and splashed with a frightening amount of blue blood. It dripped from a gash right under his hairline and down his chin, stained his clothes darkly, something straight out of a horror movie.

“Help me,” he ground out, nodding to the young man draped over his shoulders like a sack of flour. “He should be light enough for you to lift. I have to go back. I have to —”

A bullet whizzed past them, so close Hank felt the heat of it by his ear. His hand was on his gun again, but the second bullet came from Connor, who shot so cleanly and quickly Hank hadn’t even seen him draw his weapon.

The shooter went down with a shriek, clutching his arm to his chest and howling in rage more than pain.

Hank grabbed the android Connor was carrying, shifted under his weight, was shocked to find that he was heavier than he looked, even more shocked when he gasped and tried to twist sharply, and thirium ran down from a wound in his chest, blooming warmly against Hank’s back.

“Get Linus out of here.” His teeth were gritted, there was an expression on his face that Hank was afraid to name.

And then Connor was heading right back into the firefight again, stopping on the way to look down at the man who had shot at them, kicking his gun away and knocking him out with a sharp jab to the temple.

Hank watched him go. Then he turned back to his task, gripping the man that was trying to slip from his arms, carrying him towards the pinpoint of daylight in the distance.

He winced as they walked out through the door, the light too-too bright, the air freezing on his sweat-sheened skin. He lay Linus down in the snow, looked down at him lying there, clutching the front of Hank’s shirt, blue blood frothing past his lips as he breathed.

He looked like Connor.

Or maybe not really, maybe it was just his imagination, but they were about the same age and they both had brown eyes that stared at Hank with the same horrifying starkness.

There was a gaping wound in his chest. His shirt had been burned away, and underneath it things glinted and sparked, exposed where they shouldn’t have been. His movements were small, pained, fretful.

Hank looked around, desperate to find someone who could help. Surely, by now, a truckful of blue blood and biocomponents should have shown up?

“Will someone get a fucking medic? We have fuck knows how many injured.” There was a shuffle of movement behind him, not entirely enthusiastic, and Hank ground his teeth. The EMT’s on standby shrugged uncomfortably, one of them breaking away to go find someone, hopefully. Hopefully several someones.

He smoothed his hand over Linus’s cold forehead. He hated not knowing what to do. He knew extensive amounts of first aid, knew how to stop bleeding and do CPR and set broken limbs, but this was something he was useless at.

He was afraid of doing more harm than good. But comfort, comfort he could do, or at least attempt.

“Hang on. We’re gonna save ya.”

The android coughed weakly in what might have been a laugh. “Don’t — don’t think so.”

“How do I help you? Can I put pressure on this, or is it just gonna’ do fuck all?”

Linus shot a crooked, placating smile at Hank, like he wasn’t the one bleeding out. He coughed again, but there was less force to it than before, and there hadn’t been much in the fist place. Then his fingers twitched in Hank’s shirt, his eyes drifted shut, fluttered.

The rattle of his breath stilled into abrupt silence.

Hank watched him for a beat too long, his heart twisting painfully at the oddly peaceful look on his face.

He took a deep breath, felt a misplaced urge to pick him up and take his body someplace safer, somewhere away from all this, felt pathetic for feeling it. He didn’t know Linus. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen death or grievous injury. But Connor had tasked him with this, and now…

He squeezed Linus’s upper arm, looked up at where a guy was shuffling towards them, a bag with a blue cross under his arm, looking _harassed_ of all things.

Hank snapped. “Took you long enough.”

His only response was a noncommittal grunt. Rage sparked through him, hot an impotent and laced with enough fear to make bile rise to his throat. He detangled Linus’s fingers from his shirt gently, lay his arm across his chest before standing up.

He had to get to Connor. Because if anyone, God forbid, found him hurt and bleeding — it wouldn’t matter that Connor was DPD. It wouldn’t matter that Connor was _Connor_.

He strode back into the building, feeling heavier than before. It wasn’t engulfed in visible flames, but smoke curled from it thickly. There was another blast, an explosion of broken glass. The house was filling with an acrid stench, and Hank coughed, wiping his eyes, ducking his head and trying to see past the haze and the blur of his tears.

Androids stumbled out past him. The SWAT team cut through them like sharks in the water, purposeful, looking for threats, but Hank only had one thing in mind. He headed for the west wing, where Connor had come from earlier. The room swam oddly, the air too hot as he coughed.

He found Connor in the dining hall, squatting on the floor with his brow furrowed and one arm curled around his middle, his sleeve already soaked blue, LED crimson. He looked up when Hank entered, expression combative in the split second before recognition, then falling away into something soft.

“Hank,” he rasped. “You shouldn’t have —”

Hank fell to his knees next to him, grasping his upper arms. He didn’t look down at the body next to Connor. They’d both seen enough for one day. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“I can still help. I can—”

“The SWAT team is here, weaponized and covered head to toe in body armor. Come outside, Con. At least let me find you a bulletproof vest.”

Connor frowned, then nodded. He wouldn’t look at Hank, and his heart twisted guiltily. “Listen, Con, I —”

“I know about Linus.”

Hank squeezed him, more apology than reassurance. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Connor snapped. “I’m the one that failed him. I was supposed to get him out. I was supposed to get them all out.”

“Later,” Hank insisted, because there was always time for this. He curled an arm around Connor, noticed the thirium stain had spread and cursed. “How damaged are you? Can you walk?”

Connor nodded. “Just a graze.”

Hank coughed again. His airways were starting to feel like broken glass, they were running out of time. He got his arm around Connor properly, grabbed his wrist so he could swing his arm over his shoulders as they stood. Connor leaned into him, still not quite straightening up, LED flickering as he groaned in apparent pain. Hank’s hand was on his waist. He tried not to think about how wet his side was. 

“I’m going to gut the fucker that shot you,” Hank muttered.

“Too late,” Connor coughed reedily, the sound too reminiscent of the ones Linus had made as he died. “Had to shoot him.”

The building around them groaned. Hank half-dragged Connor towards the exit. It was impossible to see at this point, nothing but his sense of direction guiding him — or at least he’d thought so, until he tried to take a left and Connor pulled him towards the right.

“That way. I can smell the air.”

Hank nodded. Doubled over coughing. Crawling on the floor would have been preferable, but too slow. He wasn’t sure how bad Connor actually was. Judging by the way he held himself, far worse than he would admit.

They were almost out when the wall next to them suddenly exploded. Hank did the only thing he could think to do. He threw himself at Connor to shove him out of the way of the crumbling rubble, his ears ringing, his lungs filling with thick dust. For a second, he thought the building was just bursting apart from some combination of fire and old age. But then two shots rang out, bangs so loud he heard them through the high pitched whine in his ears, felt the impact of them next to his head.

He’d landed on his hands and knees, Connor underneath him and blessedly shielded from the rain of plaster. It left him in an awkward position, but he managed to twist around, gripping his gun as he sought out the gunman through the mist of debris.

He stood across the hall, nothing but a gray shadow, dark against the white smoke, staring down the barrel of a rifle. He shouted something, Hank’s hearing still too fuzzy to process it.

Hank fired at the same moment the rifle went off, moving before he could think about it, shoving Connor aside. He felt a painless impact, like his breath had been punched out of him, watched the silvery form of the shooter crumple as he fell back.

He shut his eyes as the walls shed pebbles and splinters onto his face, tried to struggle up and found that his body wasn’t quite listening to his instructions.

He couldn’t breathe. He tried to cough again, to clear his nose and his throat, and that’s when he realized it really fucking _hurt_.

A hand was on his shoulder, rolling him to the side, a familiar and soothing voice saying something above him, the tone urgent. Hank blinked and wheezed painfully, finally managing a breath that made his lungs burn and his mouth taste metallic.

Connor’s fingers dug into his arm hard enough to bruise. Hank groaned. He had to get them both out of here, and he had to do it now, before the black creeping into the edges of his vision rendered him completely useless. He propped himself up on one elbow, trying to push himself up past the stab of pain radiating through his entire upper torso. And he thought no, not yet, not when he wasn’t actually ready for this. If he was going to die, let it at least be _after_ he got Connor to safety.

“Hank, put your arm around me. Put your arm around me _now_.”

Well. Wasn’t that sweet.

Hank reached, his limbs heavy. There was a horrible, scraping sound crawling about in his skull. But his hand found Connor’s shoulder, and a second later, the world spun away from him, tipping dangerously as the ground disappeared. The pain sharpened, making his vision fuzz out. He tried to grab onto something for balance, realized he couldn’t, not that it would have helped, because his fingers were numb and it hurt too much to move anymore, let alone grip anything.

He was in a free fall, but his last thought was a soft confidence that Connor wold catch him.

He let gravity do its thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, can y'all tell that I write Actual Plot like..... once in a blue moon?


	11. A New Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I didn't make you guys wait too long. I've passed some of my exams! So yay, more time for writing now. Not much for drawing unfortunately, but for those of you who like my illustrations, there should be a few coming hooopefully in the next chapter.

They hadn’t let him ride in the ambulance. Something about policy, androids, the blood on his clothes, both his and Hank’s.

After the EMTs had left, Connor sat in the snow by the van, trying to catch his breath. Carrying Hank outside hadn’t been the difficult part, but now that he was out, he felt cold and shaky, his thirium pump doing something erratic in his chest. He had to get up, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. There was a painful stutter deep between his ribs, his components letting him know in no uncertain terms that they were in urgent need of repair. The alerts in his head mixed with the howl of the ambulance sirens as they left the scene, carrying out injured humans and the most critically damaged androids.

He felt scattered and weak. He had no idea how bad Hank’s injuries were, just the memory of him being shot to contend with, and the horrible sound of his labored breaths, the smell and the warmth of his blood.

Connor’s fingers clenched weakly in the snow. He had to get up. Why wasn’t he working correctly? Diagnostics were taking longer than usual, blaring alerts and popups that appeared and disappeared too fast for him to process. Percentages that meant nothing to him.

Allen shook him. He was saying something, but Connor was having a had time processing speech right now. There was just a sharp pain in his stomach when he was jostled, one that spread and only got worse with every passing second, bleeding some vital strength from him. He gagged. It hurt. Everything hurt. He needed Hank.

To his shock, it was Gavin who smacked Allen away and placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder with a lot less bite. The touch sent discomfort crawling through him, but finally, words penetrated through the haze in his head. The world sharpened again.He saw Gavin staring at him with a twisted grimace on his face. There was stubble on his jaw, snowflakes and ash in his hair.

“Look at him. You think you’re gonna get anything out of him like this? Hey, asshole, can you even hear me?”

Connor coughed wetly in response. His mouth tasted of burnt plastic. “Car— Hank.”

Gavin cursed like he was clearing phlegm from his throat.“You two are the _same_ _fucking_ _person_. You can go after him when you’re not dying anymore.”

“Not dying —” Connor ground out. “Just hurts.”

“They’re not gonna let you step foot in the hospital like this, you idiot. You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Inexplicably, Connor laughed. It made his chest feel like it was on fire, and he doubled over, wheezing with one arm curled around his middle. He coughed again, spitting blue blood, wiping hastily at his mouth. It felt like if he stopped holding himself together, his insides were going to fall out.

Gavin winced. “Okay, ew. Can you — I don’t know, Connor, fuck, are there like, organs you can replace quick so you’ll stop spewing gunk? It’s disgusting.”

“Thirium pump regulator. Later. Hank first.”

Gavin groaned. “You ain’t getting a ride from me like that. I’m not hauling your ass to the scrap heap if you expire in my car.”

Connor tried to process this. “I don’t need a ride. Hank’s car—”

Gavin cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s back at the precinct, smartass.”

Connor blinked. No. No, the keys had been in Hank’s pocket. But surely—

Connor blinked again, stamping down panic. No. There — there had to be another way. But the nearest bus stop was two miles away, and he was in no shape to run. Allen was glaring daggers at him, still apparently furious, there was no way he was going to help.

Connor pressed his hand over his wound, hanging his head. Hank was _alone_ , he might be in horrible pain or dying, this could not _possibly_ be his problem right now.

“Get up and pull your shit together,” Gavin snapped. “You have two minutes, otherwise I’m leaving without you.”

“Wait a minute, I still need to talk to you,” Allen said, stabbing at him with his finger. “You need to be debriefed, and—”

“I’m uploading a full report,” Connor said. The pressure in his chest squeezed at him, made his pulse flutter. He waited for it to even out, fought down a frustrated noise when it wouldn’t. He could feel the stutter of it in his throat. Gavin had said two minutes.

He got up. It took too much effort, his legs not wanting to take his weight, his heart malfunctioning, the regulator sparking its last. He couldn’t feel anything anymore, just a spreading numbness and pinpricks in his fingertips. Not the best sign. But it let him stumble through the snow and away towards where Gavin stood leaning against the passenger door, talking on the phone, voice low and urgent.

Gavin took one look at him and sighed. “Wow. Okay. Get in the back seat. No bitching, or you’re riding in the trunk.”

Connor was too worried to put up a fight. He yanked he door open, sat heavily on what looked like a fleece blanket spread out in the back seat. There was hair all over it.

Gavin’s car smelled like fast food. There were wrappers and tissues littered around, ketchup packets inside cup holders.

Of course, he wasn’t gracious about offering, but it didn’t matter that he was looking at Connor like he was a stain upon humanity itself, or that he threw a handful of semi-transparent napkins at him to keep Connor from bleeding all over his car. Gavin was a reckless river, which is exactly what Connor needed right now.

A little red alert in the corner of his vision told Connor they were going dangerously over the speed limit. Be bowed his head, switched it off, gasped quietly when they hit a speed bump. The world outside blurred into nothingness.

On the way there, it felt like Gavin swerved out of his way to hit every single pothole. Connor’s teeth kept clicking together, and halfway there something in him had simply jostled loose, another alert informing him abruptly of a danger to his thermoregulation. Connor gritted his teeth. It didn’t matter. He could survive this. Hank, on the other hand —

Stupid. Stupid, idiotic — Humans were so _fragile_. Connor could be taken apart piece by piece, parts of him removed, repaired, replaced, his mind uploaded into a new body if need be. Hank only had the one, and it was delicate, full of intricate tangles of veins and nerves and organs that had to maintain perfect equilibrium to function. Human tissue was easy to tear and difficult to put back together, and he’d still used it to shield Connor from harm. Connor was going to throttle him.

He didn’t fully notice when the car came to a stop. Not until Gavin snapped at him. He looked up at the glass hospital doors and suddenly felt — small, frozen. He couldn’t move.

“Get out, you useless prick. I don’t have all day.”

Connor hated him sometimes, but… right now, this, he appreciated this. It propelled him out of the car, out of the fear in his head. He stumbled out, put his hand out to steady himself against the frame. He thought he was… still leaking, from the wound, from his nose, so he paused to dab at the liquid with the wadded up tissues in his hand, because he figured that they really _wouldn’t_ let him into the hospital like this.

Once again, Gavin surprised him by getting out of the car and giving Connor a flat, assessing stare. Then he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s almost as effective as slapping a bandaid on a burst fire hydrant. I’m pretty sure everyone can see your insides.”

Connor pressed his hand over the wound in his stomach again. It felt warm — hot, actually. He supposed that was his failing thermoregulation.

“Shit,” Gavin hissed. He was staring at Connor’s back, his nose wrinkled, brows drawn. Then his eyes flicked to meet Connor’s. “You didn’t tell me the bullet literally went all the way through. Did you get blood all over my car?”

“Thirium evaporates clear.”

“It better,” Gavin muttered. “Come on. There’s no hope of you looking any less half-dead, we’ll just have to take our chances.”

Without waiting for Connor to answer, he strode through the sliding front door, his boots echoing on the clean tile. Connor found himself in the uncomfortable position of _following_ Gavin Reed inside.

And once again in the position of feeling grateful, because when Gavin kept his back straight and flashed his badge, Connor shuffling not far behind, no one really spared him a second glance.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Listened intently when the receptionist directed them to the appropriate floor. A few people gave him odd looks, but no one cared enough to stop them. A few minutes later they were in an elevator going to an upper level.

“He’s going into surgery,” Gavin said. “We have to wait.”

“We?”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, eyes hardening. “Yeah, we, asshole.”

Connor looked down at the floor. “Why are you even here?”

“Because even a dick like Hank doesn’t deserve to see your ugly mug first thing after waking up.” He paused. “Also, Fowler threatened to fire me if I left.”

Well. That, at least, made sense.

The waiting room upstairs was meant to be soothing, all cool colors and warm light, soft and cushioned seats. The bathroom was nearby, and there were vending machines full of snacks, drinks, magazines. There was no one else around.

Connor was not soothed. He wanted to pace, but quickly found he was too tired to do even that. He sunk into an armchair instead, his eyes drifting shut, even though his thoughts kept spinning away, errant, conjuring up every viable worst-case scenario. It wasn’t his programming, either, or his algorithms for computing chances of mission failures or probabilities. No, this was all Connor’s imagination, supplying him with a disturbing film reel of all the ways in which his world could break into tiny pieces.

He wasn’t sure how long they waited. Time passed like molasses, stretched and slow, and Connor was in no shape to calculate or even pull the information from the database. Every time he tried, he got so lost in a maze of confusing information he almost forgot his own name.

At some point, someone pressed an object into his hand. He looked down at it, confused, saw it was a pouch of thirium with a very pink straw sticking out of it. He looked up, fuzzy and uncertain. Was — was Gavin finally attempting to poison him? It didn’t seem out of character, even if he was being relatively nice today.

“Drink it,” he muttered. “You look pathetic. If Hank sees you like this it’s gonna give him an actual heart attack.”

Connor choked. Gavin’s verbal jibes rarely stung, but _Hank_ —

“Alright, alright, Jesus. You know I’m fucking with you, Connor. This ain’t the first time the fucker got himself shot and it probably won’t be the last. Fuck’s sake.”

Connor forced himself to sip the thirium. It was cool and flavorless, but he shuddered when it leaked out of him almost immediately. Something must haveperforated. He was going to keep getting weaker until he repaired that, but there was no shutdown alert. Perhaps it was broken. He couldn’t think of a single reason why it would matter either way.

He drifted in and out of awareness for… hours? Weeks? Could have been either. At some point, Gavin shook him awake, and he’d started violently, looking around and trying to roll out of his seat before he realized that there was still no news, just Gavin rousing him for no apparent reason.

“It shouldn’t be here,” said the doctor standing next to him. “There’s places you can go and fix androids, this isn’t my area.”

Connor couldn’t move anymore. He coughed weakly, his mouth flooding with his blood again. He felt — too warm, but also cold. His heart wasn’t working correctly, the pumps of it irregular and entirely insufficient. He felt sad, and he really wasn’t sure why.

“He said he needs a thirium pump regulator. Do something.”

“What model is it?”

“RK800.”

A troubled sigh. Long, long silence.

Then, much later, hands on him, _in_ him with no preamble, and he couldn’t help the strangled sound that escaped him because he’d forgotten how _awful_ it felt to have someone digging around in his stomach, touching wires and connections that were never even supposed to see the light of day. He knew it was supposed to help, but it still made him silently wish for unconsciousness again. He squirmed without meaning to, trying to relieve the pressure, felt the sharp bite of that grip on him and finally Gavin’s fingers around his wrists, pinning him down so he wouldn’t move.

When it was over, he felt marginally better. Raw and bruised and less blessedly numb, but somehow better. He allowed himself a moment to rest his eyes, his breathing ragged, but heartbeat steady.

When he opened them a little later, Gavin was resting with his arms crossed and a magazine over his face, and Connor was lying across the waiting room chairs his cheek pressed into a folded-up blanket.

He sat up, relieved at how much easier it was to move. His system diagnostics were back online, informing him he was operating at an unremarkable sixty-six percent efficiency. Still damaged, but no longer in immediate danger.

Gavin grunted at him from under the newspaper. “He’s awake. Pissed as hell, but —”

Connor didn’t hear the rest. He was off before Gavin could finish the sentence, bursting in through the door to Hank’s room like a tornado, nearly tearing the thing off its hinges.

And Hank was there, looking tired but awake and alive, his heart pumping blood steadily around his body, a few attached tubes filling him with painkillers and antibiotics. He quirked an eyebrow at Connor, as if he hadn’t just given him the worst scare of his life.

Whatever had been keeping Connor vaguely together snapped like a rubber band. It stole the breath from him, and he bowed his head, slowly shuffling into the room and finally sitting in the chair at Hank’s bedside. Hank was saying something, but Connor couldn’t hear words again. He curled in on himself until his forehead was resting on the bedsheets, feeling like he’d been ripped apart. The beep of the machine monitoring Hank’s vitals felt embedded into him, like he might hear it forever.

Some not-Hank person said something, and back and forth they talked, voices frustrated before Hank growled something that resonated through Connor’s internals. There was a huff, the door creaking on its hinges again, and then nothing for a while.

Then there was a hand in his hair, a thumb rubbing a spot on his temple. His breath hitched on a soft exhale. He wanted to climb into the bed with Hank, fold into his side and sleep there, but he was afraid of jostling him. His face felt wet. His head hurt, and he was cold, and he never wanted to move again.

“Connor, I’m fine,” came Hank’s exasperated voice. But it didn’t sound as strong as he was trying to make it. “I’m alright, kid. Jesus, you’d think something was actually wrong.”

Connor pressed his face into the sheet, shuddered. “If you ever do that to me again, I’m going to strangle you.”

Hank didn’t stop petting his hair. The touch changed though, from something clumsy and desperate into long, soothing strokes that sang along his skin, intimate and lulling. Connor shifted slightly to get more comfortable — he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon — and was rewarded with Hank’s low sigh and his fingers tracing the shell of his ear, dipping behind it, finding the soft patch of skin there.

“You’re too warm,” Hank mumbled.

“You’re too _shot_ ,” Connor said.

Waves of feeling for Hank hit him like a train sometimes, but especially when he laughed softly and ruffled Connor’s hair like he was petting Sumo, with easy warmth and affection.

How close had he come to losing this forever?

He put his hand lightly on Hank’s chest. The bullet had missed his heart and major arteries, just barely nicked one lung, broken a rib, but it had been too close. An inch to the left and the damage would have been massive. Irreparable.

“Comes with the territory,” Hank said finally. “Don’t exactly have the world’s safest job.”

Connor closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to do with the sadness that thrummed through him, or the exhaustion that made him feel this heavy.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “I saw you. You shouldn’t have done that to save me.” He didn’t know how to explain this without upsetting Hank, without bringing up something that would hurt them both, but he had to make him _understand_. “My life isn’t worth as much as yours. You’ve only got the one.”

The hand in his hair tightened. “ _Bullshit_. And until you get that through your head, I’ll always —” he trailed off, sighed. “Fuck it. Con, I protect the people I love. If I think you need me, there ain’t a burning building or a firefight in the world I wouldn’t walk into to save you.”

Connor sat up, stared down at him. Hank’s hair was tangled, his blue eyes warm but not entirely free of anger. There was a pained tightness etched around them, little signs of pain and frustration.

Connor reached out to cup his cheek. It was cool under his overheated hand, but he liked the way the touch made Hank’s eyes flutter shut, the sigh it dragged out of him, calmer and quieter.

He tried not to fixate on the words. Hank was drugged, exhausted, probably didn’t know what he was saying. But they made Connor’s chest swell and his eyes burn all the same.

He pressed his lips to Hank’s forehead before he could think better of it, smoothed his hair back so it wouldn’t make his face itch. It would be a miracle if someone managed to pry him away from Hank’s side ever again.

“Shouldn’t have gone in there alone,” Hank muttered, eyes still shut. “When I get out of here, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Connor sighed, relief bleeding him of his remaining energy. He sat back in the chair by the bedside, found Hank’s hand with his fingers, stoking his knuckles lightly and closing his eyes. He wasn’t sure the touch would be welcomed, but Hank didn’t seem to mind.

“When you get out of here, you can do whatever you want to my ass,” he said, his voice thick with the edges of sleep.

He was too tired to work out why, of all things, this made Hank laugh hard enough to make Connor seriously fear for his stitches.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK at the absolutely MAGNIFICENT piece of fanart Yakichou made. LooOOOooOOOk ;___; [LINK](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1117521527946317831)


	12. A New Concession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hsbdfbsdkuhvbwrieufh you guys, your responses to this have been so amazing and heartwarming to me, I literally love you all. I wanted to have this posted before Easter, but everything turned out to be so exhausting that I literally couldn't edit, and I didn't want to throw it out here without a proper look.
> 
> This is long, but a bunch of stuff happens and it felt wrong breaking it up. I think you’ll see why. But it’s funny, because I went from 900-1500 word chapters and this one is.... *cough* a little longer than that. 
> 
> Also, heads up for nightmares/ptsd, as well as mentions of Hank’s past suicidal ideation. Nothing very dark or explicit, but take care of yourselves.

Hank knew he wasn’t being a very good patient.

Connor’s fussing had been kinda cute at first. He’d reacted with predictable horror when Hank checked out a week early against doctor’s orders, and had spent the rest of the day running circles around him, bringing by food, water, making sure he moved as little as possible. Hank couldn’t quite resist teasing him, asking to be brought progressively more outlandish things until Connor had finally caught on and given him a look of such deep exasperation Hank had to wonder where he had learned it.

That was all fine, up to a point. But then, Hank had tried to order a pizza, and Connor had snatched the phone from his hand and almost thrown it across the room, face pale and brows drawn together. He’d given Hank a grating lecture on cholesterol levels and his doctor’s instructions to stick to stuff that was easy to digest, and Hank had shut his mouth and allowed Connor to make him a pot of soup, but he sure as hell wasn’t feeling the warm fuzzies anymore. He’d been looking forward to having something with substance after what felt like an eternity of hospital food.

 He was on edge the rest of the day, because Connor watched him like a hawk. Hank began to insist on getting around on his own, even though it was a million times harder to get up from the couch without Connor’s steady hand on his back and his shoulder to grab onto for support. He had a point to make though, so he ground his teeth through it, ignoring Connor’s increasingly worried looks.

When Connor had asked Hank if he needed help showering, the picture of gentle and dispassionate concern, Hank had resolutely slammed the bathroom door in his face, hurting in a way he couldn’t explain. From the shadows under the door though, he could tell that Connor hadn’t budged an inch, apparently ready to intervene if Hank cracked and asked for his help. Or slipped and cracked his skull.

He gritted his teeth as he let the water run over him, trying not to make a sound.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was the moment Hank had discovered that anything unhealthy in the house — including the chocolate and _expensive_ whiskey — had mysteriously disappeared.

Connor had taken his yelling in stride, reacted with the calm of a parent managing a child’s tantrum — and Hank would _know_ , goddammit, and he didn’t appreciate being patronized. Connor’s face had betrayed no emotion, but the slight inclination of one eyebrow was telling.

He still made Hank’s bed, checked his bandage, set a glass of water on his nightstand, but the ‘goodnight’ he’d muttered was soft and cool, and he hadn’t stuck around. He went out for a long walk with Sumo, and returned after Hank had fallen asleep, settling down on the couch for the night. And there he stayed every night hence.

Hank was _annoyed_. If he was going to act like a twitchy, overbearing, insufferable boyfriend, the least he could do was come back to bed where Hank could keep an eye on him.

Hank only got worse as the days passed; the warm fuzz of the drugs he’d been given in the hospital faded far quicker than healing happened, and left behind more pain than he was comfortable with. Moving too fast felt like getting stabbed between the ribs, and trying to do anything that required more effort than just existing left him aching, out of breath. His showers were brief, meals perfunctory, and his activity mostly restricted to moving between the couch, the bed, and the bathroom.

He was weak. And _bored_ , but too easily fatigued to do anything interesting about it. He hadn’t expected Connor to entertain him or anything, but he missed conversation that wasn’t centered around how much he’d had to eat, whether he was staying hydrated, and whether he needed more analgesics.

When he slept, he either slept for twenty hours straight, or not at all. He gravitated between restless and exhausted. Connor was ever vigilant with his medication, and the longer he hovered, his eyes constantly on Hank, the more Hank itched to be alone so he could toss back a bottle of painkillers and dull the world into something manageable, maybe go swing by the department and get some work done so he would feel slightly less like a waste of space.

He tried not to take his anger out on Connor. He really did. But the kid was starting to drive him up the wall. He moved from place to place like a bee on crack, always busy, never settling down, tidying, cooking, doing laundry, walking the dog, feeding the dog, making the bed, fluffing pillows, smoothing out wrinkled sheets.

When he started washing the windows, Hank had finally snapped.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Connor froze and stopped scrubbing. He looked down at Hank from where he was perched on a windowsill with a rag and a squeegee, sleeves rolled up, dripping suds. They trailed down his bare forearm in an intriguing soapy rivulet, following the curvature of perfectly sculpted muscles and veins. Hank almost shook himself. Now was not the time.

“Cleaning.”

Hank leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms. He felt weaker on his feet than he cared to admit, but he still had a couple of inches and probably a couple dozen pounds on Connor, and he could damn well find a way to be intimidating for five minutes. “Well you’re not my goddamn slave, so _stop_.”

Connor set the rag down, frowning at the pane of glass like it had offended his mother. “There’s smudges.”

“Does it look like I _care_?”

“Hank, I was just trying to —”

“ _Help?_ ” He stared at Connor, inexplicably fuming. “How about, crazy idea, _don_ _’t_. For once. Go home. Relax for five fucking minutes Connor, because you’re about to drive me insane.”

Connor blinked. He put down the squeegee. “You don’t feel well-rested?”

Hank rubbed both hands down his face. The muscles in his shoulder twinged in protest. “If I was any better rested, I’d be six feet under. Watching _you_ is stressing me out.”

“But —”

“Connor, I fucking mean it. I can see myself in the floors, the house is cleaner than it’s _ever_ been, and Sumo just had eight more years added to his lifespan. I really need you find yourself an activity that doesn’t involve mothering me.”

Connor huffed. “I took time off to take care of you. I’m only doing what I can to ensure your speedy recovery.”

Hank bristled. “Then un-take the time off. I don’t care, Connor. You’re not my nursemaid, and I just want to be left _alone._ ”

Connor stared at him, the frustration in his eyes clear. Hank wanted to shake him. It wasn’t his fault he could still hardly lift a finger, goddammit. He needed five minutes to not feel like he was somehow failing at life; he had enough of that when he was _well_.

“As you wish, Lieutenant,” Connor said finally. And then he did exactly as Hank had asked. He left, and went back to work the same day.

For a while that had been a relief, because Hank could stretch out and relax without feeling like he was in the way — in the _way_ , in his own goddamn home. The nerve.

But then Sumo had started whining softly, staring at the window, and Hank buried his face in his hands with a long-suffering sigh. When Connor came back, he was probably going to have to have a talk with him about boundaries, and then apologize for snapping.

To his chagrin, and later anger, Connor didn’t come back that day. A blond android had shown up on his doorstep instead, introduced himself as Simon, and said that he was there to check if Hank wanted any help and walk Sumo if the need arose.

And what kind of a response was _that_? They had one teeny argument, and Connor fucked off somewhere without another word?

Simon took Hank’s irritation with good humor, and watched him with warm, curious eyes after he brought Sumo back from his walk, but he didn’t overstay his welcome or turn Hank’s home upside down. He was just there to temporarily help take care of a dog too big for to manage.

Hank’s awkwardness didn’t fade much the second day around, but he filled the silence by offering Simon some of the thirium he’d started keeping in the fridge, and they actually managed to spend a nice, quiet hour together when he had stayed to wait out some heavier snowfall. Simon seemed fine with the silence, leaning back in his chair and petting Sumo with an easy, natural gentleness.

Hank kinda liked him. He was glad Connor had him as a friend — doubly glad when he remembered that Simon was apparently responsible for Connor’s wardrobe change; those crisp shirts and magazine cover jackets, and the snug jeans that accentuated his —

No. Hank wasn’t going there. Nope. Not when he couldn’t do anything about it.

He was still pissed when he thought about their — fight? Had it even been a fight? It hadn’t felt like one, Connor hadn’t said a single mean word or even raised his voice, Hank had just gone off on him like an asshole. But whatever it was had Hank still fuming and feeling no small measure of guilt, which was confusing because when he thought about Connor cleaning his windows he wanted to strangle him all over again anyway.

Then Hank thought about his fingers, wrapping around Connor’s pale throat. Only, not to hurt him, but to gently hold him down, keep him still so he couldn’t look away, so he would gasp shallowly into Hank’s mouth when they—

Fuck. _Fuck_. He really had to stop thinking.

 

When Connor finally returned, it was to stop by with groceries late one evening. He didn’t say a word as he let himself in, avoided eye contact. He just brought in the food, setting everything down on the table so he could stock the fridge, and there was a tired, quiet focus on his face as he worked. Then a glimmer of something hesitant when Hank walked up to him, a stiffening of his back and a flash of something steely in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hank muttered, looking over his shoulder at the bags of groceries. He hung back, feeling awkward, embarrassed because without Connor here there had been little incentive to put effort into showering or changing his dressings as often, and he figured the kid could tell, was probably shaking his head internally.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t starve, Lieutenant.”

But Connor didn’t have to be here personally. He could’ve just sent Simon again, or ordered a delivery service, which meant he was here to see Hank.

Hank walked up behind him, stumbling over the things he’d been meaning to say. As it turned out, the first thing out of his mouth was a question that came out more like an accusation than he’d intended. “You’ve been gone a while.”

Connor’s back went ramrod straight. His movements slowed, and he half-turned to look at Hank, his fingers wrapped around a can of beans. “I was trying to give you space,” he said stiffly.

Hank’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You were _sulking_.”

Connor shot him a flat look. “I don’t sulk. You said you wanted to be left alone.”

What Hank wanted was to wrap him in blankets and never let go. Fuck space, and fuck being left alone extra hard. But Connor looked somewhere between fragile and angry, and Hank didn’t want to crowd him. He didn’t think being swept off his feet and tucked into bed with Hank was something he would appreciate right now, even if Hank _could_ pull it off.

He sighed. “Would you come back?”

Connor almost dropped his beans. He set them down, his LED turning yellow as he frowned. Hank took an instinctive step towards him.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Stared at Hank blankly.

Hank flushed. “To stay, I mean. For — a while. However long you want, really.”

There was a flicker of something on Connor’s face, small and too quick to catch. He looked away, took his time answering. “As long as you don’t mind,” he said, carefully moving around cans with his fingertips, aligning them into neat rows. “I’ll try not to bother you. I just — feel better, being here at night.”

“You don’t bother me.” Hank said awkwardly, although — “Fuck, Connor, when I said wanted you to leave me alone, I didn’t mean it like this.”

Red, so briefly it was gone before it had the chance to make Hank’s pulse skyrocket. Connor’s frown deepened, and he tilted his head. Thinking. “I don’t actually read minds, Hank. I can’t _always_ tell what you mean.”

Hank wanted to ask when Connor had started listening to a single damn word he said, but then he remembered the first time, those first few weeks after the revolution, where he truly _had_ meant it when he’d told Connor to leave and live his own life. He’d listened — for all of five minutes, but still — and Hank had hurt Connor then. Maybe enough to leave something with him. Enough to make this dumb argument a little too raw.

Hank shifted from foot to foot. “Connor, any time you want to be here, you should be here. Fuck me and my old man bitching, you don’t have to leave unless you want to, alright?”

Connor gave him a dismayed look. “Hank. This is your _home_.”

 _It_ ’s _your home, too_ , Hank almost said, and had to bite down on the thought. Stared at it with abject horror as it sat in his head, because where had _that_ come from? Jesus, all it took was an almost-kiss and a few days in the hospital, and he was already mentally moving Connor in?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Well,” he said quickly, feeling ill. “Uh… if you want — that is, you should — you are. Welcome here.” He cleared his throat, his face burning. “And I mean always,” he had to add, because he meant it.

Connor sighed. A ghost of a smile appeared, fleeting and more sad than not, but it was a start.

Somehow, the distance between them didn’t feel any smaller.

Hank slept fretfully that night, and the nights after that, waking up itchy and in pain and with a feeling of dread that he couldn’t place. His dreams were often too fragmented to remember, but they were enough to leave him with a twisted, nauseating oil slick in his gut. There was too much blue. Too many shattered collages of his past and present warring for the number one spot on his list of anxieties.

Connor was somehow always there before his terror got too deep, shaking him awake gently. It happened once, twice, and the third night, when Hank had groaned and shifted towards him, still half asleep, he’d started running his hands through Hank’s hair, his words low and soothing, bringing him back to reality. It was embarrassingly easy to lean into his touch and feel thoroughly comforted, fall asleep with Connor’s fingers drifting through the bristles on his face or rubbing his back.

Connor was careful, avoided jostling anything that hurt. There was nothing clinical about it though, not a single thing cold or impassive about his hand between Hank’s shoulders or low on his spine. The weight of it was addicting, heady for a thing so light.

He always felt something then — a stir of emotion in his chest that was awful and familiar all at once, too painful to name, but undeniably there nonetheless. He chased sleep, before words could surface.

Connor never stayed, retreating back to the living room every night, and the days were not much changed — he left for work, he walked Sumo, he was distant and quiet, often lost in thought. But he slept here, and there was something almost unbearable about his kindness when he comforted Hank at night.

It was more than Hank had ever had. He couldn’t remember anyone _ever_ doing that for him, not when he'd been married, not before or after. He was sure he was supposed to file this in the considerable category of things he Wasn’t Allowed, but he just — this was so much better than waking up cold and alone and afraid, nothing but Sumo and a bottle for company. And he was too selfish, too weak to tell Connor to leave again.

A couple of nights later, he realized he’d been staring at the ceiling for going on two hours before he figured out it was futile. He was tired, his chest still hurt, he wanted — Connor, he realized. Not to take the edge off his growing sexual frustration, not to help him fall asleep, just — Connor. He figured maybe he could make some popcorn and quietly put on a terrible movie, pass out sitting somewhere at Connor’s feet if there was room. Apologize in the morning and — ask him to come back properly, reestablish the ease between them, because surely one stupid non-fight couldn’t break that.

He got out of bed and made for the living room, steadfastly pretending it didn’t make his ribs scream any more than usual, expecting to find Connor fast asleep on the couch.

He found him. On the couch, but curled up on his side and staring at nothing, his throat working around a sound that never seemed to make it out, LED casting a pallid, red glow on his face.

Hank almost tripped rushing over to his side. He sank down next to him, pushed his fingers into Connor’s hair. He was hot, so tense he was practically vibrating, and didn’t react at all to being touched.

He squeezed Connor’s shoulder, said his name twice before he got a reaction. Connor turned his face into the pillow under his head like he could hide whatever emotions were on it, as if his LED wasn’t still shining through the thin fabric it was pressed against, as if Hank hadn’t seen his raw, stark pain on his face.

“Hey. Hey, honey, it’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe.” He touched Connor’s cheek, his hand shaking, feeling completely at a loss.

Connor’s shoulders convulsed. It should’ve been a sob, but there wasn’t even the choked sound of trying to restrain it. Hank leaned over him, desperate, trying to shake him gently. He tried to emulate whatever low, magnetic tone Connor always used when he woke Hank like this, but it didn’t come out the same; his voice was too gruff for it and he possessed none of Connor’s grace or gentleness, his hands too rough with age.

He curled over him anyway, pressing one hand between his shoulders.

 “Connor, no one’s gonna hurt you. It’s just me. I’m right here.”

Connor finally made a noise. A small moan of denial as he dragged in a shaky breath, muffled by his pillow, but at least it wasn’t that awful silence. Hank stroked his fingers through his hair. What the hell was he supposed to do? Was he ill? Hurting? He looked awful, flinched when Hank shifted closer to his hip, when he finally settled on rubbing a circle into the small of his back.

“Hush, baby. I’ve got you.” Connor shifted slightly, like he wanted to be closer despite the shiver going through him, the frightening heat of his skin. Something swelled in Hank’s chest. “You’re home. You’re safe. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Connor’s breathing went unsteady as he curled into a tighter ball. He shook like he was crying, and Hank wished — and Lord, the irony — he wished that he could read his mood with any sort of precision, pluck probabilities out of thin air and preconstruct the right response to make him feel better. He had no tools for dealing with this. Just his own, clumsy attempts at being comforting, and he was rusty as hell at it. He’d never seen Connor stay at red for so long.

“Connor, please,” he begged, touching his hair, his jaw, his neck, whatever he could reach. Connor still felt overheated, feverish, and Hank remembered a night Cole had been sick and needed to be cooled with damp rags. It sent a sharp, jagged pain through his heart. “Just talk to me. Just try. Tell me what I can do to make it better.”

“ _Hank_.”

“Right here, love.”

Connor shuddered. “I — I’m fine.”

Hank would have laughed if he wasn’t so horrified. “You most _certainly_ aren’t.”

“No, I— I’m actually —” his breath hitched on a sob — “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m f—”

“Fuck’s sake. Come here.” He wrapped an arm around Connor and hoisted him up so he could fold him into his arms, where he curled into Hank’s chest, hiding as if Hank couldn’t tell from the shaky gasps shuddering out of him or the growing wet spot on his shirt that Connor was very much not fine.

He kept him firmly in his embrace, Connor’s face tucked into his shoulder, gently cupping the back of his skull and combing his fingers through his hair. If he needed to be held, Hank would hold him until the earth exploded.

It took Connor a long time to properly calm. He stopped crying at some point, but his breathing was unsteady, verging on panic attack territory. So this was all — what, emulation? After all, he fidgeted, tapped his foot or his fingers on the desk when he couldn’t find that silver coin, blissfully unaware that half the time it was tucked away in Hank’s pocket.

He rubbed his back, making soft shushing noises when Connor tensed, as if something was still going _through_ him, pangs of pain or bad memories or both.

When he finally went quiet, Hank pressed his cheek into his hair and sighed, a combination of worry and sadness and relief. “You with me, Con?”

“I — I’m sorry, Hank. I’m sorry.”

Hank squeezed him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I — I let you get shot. I got Linus killed. I failed, I didn’t—”

“Connor. That’s not on you.”

“It was my fault—”

Hank squeezed harder. Hard enough for Connor to really feel it, apparently, because he made a soft noise of surprise. Hank felt like he was crushing him, and like his stitches might tear for all the force he was exerting just trying to get Connor to _settle_ , but Connor didn’t seem to mind. He quieted, resting his chin on Hank’s shoulder, the breath shuddering out of him slower.

If he could just stop Connor’s mind from spinning, maybe he would see what Hank saw.

“Linus, and me — that wasn’t your fault. If you failed, so did I. So did dozens of others. That's not on you.”

Connor shifted. Somehow he’d ended up with his legs across Hank’s lap, curled into his side. It was good like this, all of him within reach, warm and close.

He was quiet, but his arm tightened around Hank’s middle. “Every night, I see you,” he whispered finally, his voice unsteady. “I — you bleed out in my arms. Or you — you — die in the hospital before I can get there, and I just — I’m so _tired,_ Hank. I’m sorry I upset you, but I can’t — I can’t sleep at home, and I just want to stop thinking. Just for a little while.”

Hank sighed. He rubbed the spot behind Connor’s ear; he was sensitive there, the touch always made him shiver and then immediately relax — even now, though he remained tense, something small seemed to loosen inside of him, and he moved closer to Hank. He kept stroking that spot, liked what it seemed to do for him.

“I wasn’t upset because of you,” he said gently when Connor finally went slack. “Or — a little, but that’s not — I shouldn’t have yelled. Then you went and fucked off for three days and I didn’t even get to apologize for being a dick about things.”

Connor sighed, the sound soft, stirring the hairs at Hank’s neck. “I didn’t realize I was winding you up so badly.”

“You were worried. Happens to the best of us,” Hank said on a yawn. Something warm inside him twitched, strained to warp around Connor. He inhaled deeply, smelling the clean and earthy scent on his hair. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Connor stopped breathing. “You did?”

How could that still be surprising? Hank dragged his hand slowly down his spine. Connor arched into it like a cat, pressing his face into the crook of Hank’s neck, his lips parting as they touched the hollow of his throat, a surprised almost-sound. His face was still damp with tears, and Hank was fucked because he wanted to taste them. “’Course I did. House is too damn empty without you.”

“That’s what radios are for,” Connor mumbled, his mouth moving against a sensitive patch of Hank’s skin. And fuck, Hank couldn’t help himself when he reached out to twist his fingers into his hair, this time less soothing and more — there. Keeping him close.

“Fuck that” he muttered. “And fuck cleaning up after me, Connor. I shouldn’t have yelled, but I don’t want you slaving away for me all day long. I know I still need to take it slow, but I don’t have one foot in the grave just yet. I want you to feel at home here. ”

Connor hesitated. “I panicked.”

Hank snorted. “Ya think?”

“I was — overwhelmed. I just. I won’t throw your things out anymore. I also paid you back for what I got rid of. You can… replace it all, if you’d like.” Hank could almost feel his grimace, ached with how much he clearly didn’t want to say this. This time though, instead of grating at him, it just made him sad.

He’d thought a lot about it. The chips and donuts, sure,  but most pressingly the booze. He sighed, idly trailing his fingertips down Connor’s spine. It was probably high time he’d thrown it all away anyway. Tried… not doing that, for a little while, or at least not as often.

It occurred to him with a pang of sadness that where Hank had a lifetime of mostly good experiences to comfort him, even when shit was bad — memories of his childhood, of concerts, of climbing trees, of kissing, fucking, dancing, starlit nights, holding Cole — Connor had known very little but violence in his short life. Had few good memories to chase away his nightmares, and far too little experience with feelings of happiness, or even something as basic as a sense of safety, comfort, contentment.

Hank had to do something about that. Connor _needed_ good memories.

All he did was work. He was often unhappy being held at the careful distance Hank had tried and failed to maintain. A tragic state of affairs given how much he seemed to love physical contact. He’d thought he’d been imagining it at first, seeing something sensual and flirtatious where it was intended as platonic, but then, the day of the shooting, Hank had almost kissed him after he’d woken up in a panic, and he —

He’d wanted it. He’d been _upset_ when they were interrupted. And now, he wanted this, too, his face tucked into Hank, an arm around him, their bodies half-entangled, hands in each other’s hair. Connor enjoyed being close to him. He liked the _something_ between them and wanted more of it.

Hank shook his head. The boy sure could pick ‘em.

Connor grew lax against him. He was silent for a while, but he didn’t seem to want to move. That was just fine. Tired and confused and fuzzy as Hank felt, he didn’t want to move either. He liked the sound of Connor’s breathing.

He yawned. This was… almost nice.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Connor muttered against his neck. “You should go back to sleep.”

Hank stiffened. “You didn’t wake me up. I got up because I _couldn_ _’t_ sleep, and found you—” a horrible thought occurred to him. “Connor? Why the hell did I have to beg you to make a peep?”

Connor shifted uncomfortably. He twitched like he wanted to lean away. “I woke you _and_ Sumo the first night it happened, so ever since then I’ve been muting my voice synthesizer before I go to bed.”

Hank _felt_ his heart fracture clean down the middle. The thought of Connor suffering from nightmares in deliberate, self-imposed silence, crying futilely into his sheets — no. Just… no.

The few days he’d spent away from Hank’s house, he’d been alone. Had he even attempted sleep then? Or had he suffered just like this, only without Hank there to soothe him, without even the comfort of knowing he was alive and breathing in the adjacent room? Because of Hank, because Hank had told him off and made him feel like —

“You’re not going to do that anymore,” he said firmly. His arm tightened around Connor again, and he thought if he could find a way to burrow underneath his skin, he would do it.

“You need rest.”

“So do you,” Hank said, voice still hard, an edge to it he hadn’t used in years. “If you have nightmares, you’re going to wake me up, Connor. I’m not letting you gag yourself before you go to bed. Jesus.”

Connor shifted. “I want you to heal.”

“I’m not made of cotton. I’ll heal just fine, even if I have to wake up a couple of times a night to shake you awake. You’ve done it for me, haven’t you?”

Connor’s sigh fanned out across his cheek. “Alright,” he conceded, apparently too tired to fight.

Hank reared back slightly so he could look down at him. He stared right back, his eyes tired, head pillowed on Hank’s shoulder. He looked — exhausted, soft, his hair curled and face damp. His LED was blue though, or at least mostly blue, interrupted by tiny flickers of yellow.

 He’d been running himself ragged taking care of Hank, not sleeping enough, now going back to work on top of it. He hadn’t said a word about the injuries _he_ had sustained, either, and Hank had been too out of it - and then too much of an asshole — to inquire.

He’d fucked up. If Connor needed to be shown it was okay to ask Hank for things, that was something he’d failed spectacularly at encouraging, but more importantly — Connor shouldn’t have _had_ to ask. Hank should have seen it. Being high on painkillers and ornery as fuck was no excuse. 

He smoothed his hand down Connor’s side, his thumb slipping against a sliver of bare skin under his ribs. “I think we should both go back to sleep.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Hank’s mouth twitched. “Together. I’m not letting you out of my sight again. You can’t be trusted.”

“You’re asking me to sleep in your room?”

Hank flushed. “My bed, Connor. What, like you’re gonna sleep on the floor?”

Connor looked away, rubbed the back of his neck. It was that sweet, distracting movement, and it caught every ounce of Hank’s attention.

“You do that a lot,” Hank mused, his eyes glued to the way Connor’s fingers moved into his own hair.

Connor blinked. “What?”

He placed his hand over Connor’s where it rested at his nape, watched him go still as he realized what he’d been doing.

Connor gave Hank a tiny, rueful smile. “Doesn’t feel as good as when you do it.”

Hank’s mouth went dry.

“Like this?” He slipped his hand under Connor’s and squeezed gently.

Connor’s eyelashes fluttered shut, and his hand fell away as he leaned in. And he honest-to-god whimpered, the sound small and needy. Hank was lost the second he heard it, his heart suddenly galloping a million miles a minute, and Jesus but he was beautiful, even visibly tired, even with thirium tear streaks drying on his face.

Hank licked his lips. “Connor?”

Connor looked up at him, his face close, eyes warm. “Yes.”

And Hank kissed him. A brief, soft press of his lips that just caught the corner of Connor’s mouth, the concession to an urge he felt almost constantly. A better man than Hank wouldn’t have. But Connor was warm, and he smelled clean and soapy, and leaning in with that tiny gesture felt like the most natural thing in the world next to breathing. And honestly, fuck feelings, every one of them except _this_ one, because the way Connor reacted, the way he shifted to face Hank better and slipped a hesitant hand into his hair at the base of his skull felt _marvelous_.

He blinked when Hank drew back a breath. There was a moment he stayed frozen in place, brows furrowed and LED flickering. Hank had a brief second to wonder if he’d fucked up again, and then Connor twisted his fingers in his shirt to yank him closer and pressed his lips firmly to Hank’s.

His mouth warm, maddeningly soft, made for exploring and teasing open, and Hank had to concentrate on not just — climbing on top of him and _taking_ like a neanderthal. His heart was somewhere in his throat, stuttering over the feeling of Connor’s arms wrapped tightly around him, of his lips moving cautiously and against Hank’s, like they belonged there, like they’d been doing it every day for years, a rhythm that felt completely strange and new and familiar all the same.

It was too easy to let his hands slip upwards under his shirt to rest against smooth skin, to drag him closer until he was straddling Hank’s lap. Connor was the one to cup his face, to tilt his head until their lips slotted together like puzzle pieces, to tease him with a soft, breathless series of increasingly lingering kisses. Hank was on fire, senses turned up to eleven, every heartbeat loud in his ears.

There was nothing hesitant in the way Connor melted into him, and Hank was not strong enough to resist. Connor deserved someone better, but it was so, so hard to remember that when he was sprawled on top of Hank, warm, solid, real, tasting somehow of sunlight and snow, his thighs braced on the outside of Hank’s, his hands feather-light but constantly seeking somewhere sensitive to press against.

He kissed Hank with an endearing clumsiness that made it apparent it wasn’t a thing he was effortlessly suave at the way he was at literally everything else. But it wasn’t _innocent,_ either — not with the way he hummed and curled his fingers into Hank’s hair, his breath shallow and damp against Hank’s mouth, his other hand twitching in the fabric of his shirt like he was thinking about tugging it off.

The thought of that, of getting undressed and lying next to Connor, skin to skin as Hank kissed him absolutely senseless made lights spark behind his eyelids and his world fuzz.

 _Oh_. He pulled back with a breathless laugh that hurt his ribs, leaning his forehead against Connor’s. Okay, so maybe he was a little oxygen deprived, too.

Connor’s mouth wandered down to his jaw, then his neck, finding the hollow over Hank’s pulse. Hank almost jumped out of his skin when he nipped him there, all sharp teeth and slick tongue, the sinuous press of it shooting straight down to Hank’s dick. Dear God. Hank’s vision grayed dangerously at the edges.

Connor froze, his lips breaking away from Hank’s skin with a wet sound, his hands careful and movements halting as he straightened up. It was too dark to tell, but Hank would have sworn that his pupils were blown and his cheeks tinged with color.

“Gimme a minute,” Hank managed, because he _really_ didn’t want to stop. But he couldn’t do it like this, he had to — just take a small break. It was fine when they were kissing and his mouth was occupied and his lungs weren’t working so hard anyway. It was the panting in between that made it worse.

Connor gave him a lost look. “I hurt you. I should—”

Hank’s hand, still on the bare skin of his waist, tightened possessively. “No. No. You didn’t hurt me.”

“Hmm,” Connor hummed, disbelieving. His palms were warm against Hank’s neck, soft when he leaned in to peck him on the lips, this time carefully, slowly, the breath of contact more than a real kiss.

Hank sighed, let his hands trail lower to rest on Connor’s thighs. “Bed?”

Connor detangled himself gently, offered Hank his hand, and this time Hank was too tired and too warm and in too much actual pain to put up a fight. He let Connor help him up and drag him to bed, where he flopped down on top of the covers with a muffled groan.

He reached out for Connor, suddenly exhausted and… something. He felt soft. It was like moving from the couch to the bedroom had sucked the last of his energy out, leaving Hank with a persistent ache in his chest and eyelids so heavy they felt leaden. And a swirl of unease, too, a sense of worry and guilt that only vanished when Connor crawled into bed next to him, careful not to dip the mattress too suddenly.

He curled up on his side and stroked Hank’s hair, his fingers slipping through it easily, tucking strands away from his face and behind his ear.

“Is this okay?” he asked, sounding oddly nervous.

Hank grunted in the affirmative. More than okay. Hank loved it. He loved Connor’s clever hands, so he turned his face into his touch, smiled when Connor brushed his thumb over the ridge of hank’s brow, his nose, his eyelashes. Butterfly soft.

“C’mere.”

Connor shifted closer, and Hank slipped an arm around him and under his shirt so his forearm would rest against bare skin. Still too warm. But cooler than before. Hank sighed, pressed his nose into his hair.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he had to ask.

He was asleep before he heard Connor’s answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these idiots so much.


	13. A New Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor struggles with emotions and... some other stuff. But the boys are certainly making some progress. This turned out pretty quiet and introspective, but things will pick up a little more in the next chapter.

For the first time in weeks, Connor came awake slowly, awareness creeping back in increments and not a bright, terrifying flurry of reality. First the light, soft and violet, sunrise diffused by clouds. Then cold, unpleasant and prickly on the side of his midriff not covered by a very large, warm hand.

The down comforter crinkled when he tried to shift, and the arm around him tightened, and he could smell — Hank’s shampoo, and his sweat, and his laundry soap.

He turned his face towards the source of that scent on a deep inhale, a worry that had had been gnawing at him for a while now settling slightly, soothed by the sound of deep, sleepy breathing.

He was draped half on top of Connor, heavy and solid, his mouth touching the spot under Connor’s ear, soft lips and rough beard and warm breath. There wasn’t a single subtle thing about him; not the weight of him pinning Connor to the mattress, nor the erection pressed into Connor’s hip, insistent despite layers of fabric, or the nose buried in his hair. Every touch was a point of heat against Connor, bright and alive with the thrum of Hank’s pulse under his skin.

Connor was afraid to move. He didn’t want Hank to wake up and remember Connor’s embarrassing outburst from last night, or even worse, wake up with regrets. Connor was sure he could deal with it later, but right now, coming out of his own shaky hold on sleep, his charge still a lower than it should be and his body a degree cooler than normal, he didn’t want this to be over. He just wanted the comfort of it. Just for five more minutes.

Hank pressed closer, the feeling bright and intriguing, the warmth of pressure dragging an unwilling response out of him. Connor moved into it without meaning to, chasing it, and had to stamp down a sigh. The way Hank’s leg was pressed between his was… yeah. He had to concentrate on not moving for a while, because he didn’t think that rubbing against Hank like a cat in heat while he was still asleep was an entirely decent thing to do.

Then Hank’s hand slipped up under his shirt, the calluses on it scraping pleasantly at Connor’s skin. His breath hitched when Hank’s thumb dipped against his navel. He didn’t know who had put all of Connor’s nerve endings there, but he wasn’t sure whether he should thank them or kill them.

He groaned, curled his fingers into the hair at Hank’s nape.

Connor felt him shift from sleep into wakefulness as gradually as Connor had, his senses coming online one by one. There was a whisper of tension suddenly inside him, and Connor held still, stopped breathing, waited for him to roll away.

Hank just sighed warmly against his skin. “Mm. Morning.”

Connor shivered. He could feel the vibrations of Hank’s voice, and it was doing something unspeakable to his stomach and his groin. “Morning?” he breathed, shakier than he intended.

Hank’s hand wandered higher, dragging up to the center of his chest, heavy and grounding, then all the way back down to his stomach in a slow, steady stroke that set Connor’s skin aflame, made him squirm in a futile effort to feel more.

There was a snort. A light flush that tinted Hank’s face, his expression a mix of surprise and bemusement. “That a glock in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Connor’s thoughts were not cooperating with him at all. All he could focus on was the fact that if Hank moved his hand just a _little_ bit lower, Connor might finally feel something akin to relief. “It — would be highly irresponsible of me to take my service weapon to bed,” he managed.

And then Hank’s fingers found the jagged place where Connor had been shot, where he hadn’t yet had the time to repair himself properly. It was no longer an open wound, just a hastily patched place in the center of his torso where his skin stretched a little differently over the dent in his body. It would go away if he saw a technician, and it wasn’t very big either way, but Hank froze, frowned as he rubbed his thumb over it, propping himself up on one elbow to look properly at Connor’s face.

“It’s higher up than I thought,” he said after a beat. He searched Connor’s face for something, frown deepening. “I didn’t know you could scar.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “It’s not permanent. I can get it fixed, I just haven’t found a technician I trust yet.” He figured now was not the time to tell Hank that he still hadn’t gone in for repairs, that some of his internals were still damaged.

He could feel the weight of Hank’s gaze. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Hank’s thumb dragged across it again. The sensation that sparked under that touch was strange, a numbness and a flare of feeling together. Not bad, but not exactly good, either. And Hank was staring at him, his expression sleepy but intent, his fingers sliding lower to rest on his stomach.

Connor stilled. He wasn’t sure what protocol there was for this. He wasn’t even sure what they were to each other anymore, didn’t have the words or search terms to help him quantify their relationship and figure out what to do. It had been easier last night, coming out of a nightmare into a darkness where he felt unseen.

It was unsettling. Hank had used the word love in reference to Connor before, but he’d been pumped full of drugs at the time. He’d also initiated an approximation of a kiss last night, but Connor had been the one to break under the weight of his desperation and all but attack him in return, and while he’d felt Hank’s physical response to this, the fast thrum of his heart, the spike of arousal, he knew full and well it was possible to feel something one didn’t want.

The thought made him ache somewhere deep in his chest.

“Not crushing you, am I?” Hank asked, his fingers splaying against Connor’s ribs. They lingered there, tickling him, light and distracting.

“No.” Connor didn’t feel crushed, he felt — contained. He was confident he could free himself if he really wanted to, he just… didn’t, especially since Hank wasn’t moving away yet. It should’ve bothered him more than it did. He was supposed to be a hunter, and being pinned should not be comfortable. Submission, acquiescence, they were supposed to be his antithesis, but this is definitely what this felt like and he — liked it.

“You sleep any better?”

“Yes.” Dozing off to the sound of Hank’s heartbeat under his ear had taken the edge off the terror that chased him at night. It didn’t hurt that Hank’s chest made for a broad and comfortable pillow. And Connor, who’d never cared for things like comfort, suddenly found himself bereft at the thought of not using it every time he slept.

He pressed his palm to Hank’s lower back carefully. Touching without explicit permission or invitation felt strange, grated at some old programming somewhere deep inside him, but it was alright when he took it slow, watched Hank for signs of either acceptance or rejection, any reaction from his micro expressions to his heart rate.

Hank’s pulse sped up slightly, pupils dilating. He shifted into Connor and pressed his nose into his hair on a deep inhale. Connor relaxed his hand, trailing a thumb down the dip of Hank’s spine, marveling at the texture and warmth of his skin, the sting of his beard and the soft pressure of his lips. He didn’t get to do this very often. He wanted to keep it. Even like this, with his touch far lighter than he wanted it to be.

Hank huffed, his fingers digging into Connor’s hip. Connor couldn’t explain why, but somehow the painful edge to that grip made him heat up as pleasure sparked warmly along his sensors, sending a discordant wave of feedback through his limbs. A small sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

He felt Hank smile against his skin. “You doin’ alright there, Connor?”

Connor was rapidly losing the ability to speak. He curled one leg up, trying to shift closer, breath catching when Hank rolled fully on top of him. His hair fell in a curtain around his face, and he rested his fingers against Connor’s temple, looking down, his blue eyes warm. Baby blue, so clear they could’ve been an August sky. Connor’s breathing felt shallow.

Hank was just — big. Tall, and broad, and muscled under a pleasant, softer layer of fat, and judging by the intriguing pressure of his arousal, now tucked flush against Connor’s thigh, his size extended — elsewhere. He was always warm, his voice was deep, his hands large and surprisingly nimble when he was sober, and Connor just — felt surrounded by him, hidden, encompassed. He sighed, deeply pleased with this development. There was so much to _feel_.

But instead of taking the change in positions as the delightful opportunity that it was, Hank leaned in to press a single warm, scratchy kiss to Connor’s cheek and then rolled off him again, looking sheepish. “I think we need to have a talk,” he said. “But I’ve got plans for us first. Why don’t you go find something comfortable to wear?”

Connor stared up at the ceiling, cold and prickly, his face warmer than the rest of him. Hank was already sitting up, struggling out of bed and wincing as the motion pulled at his stitches, and all Connor could do was lay there wondering what on earth was happening. Hank was leaving? He wasn’t _done_.

Hank did not seem to care. He made his way down the hall, whistling something under his breath, a set of notes too random to be an actual song.

Connor rolled to his side with a low groan. The ache between his legs was decidedly unfamiliar, at least to this degree. He’d never been particularly bothered by any amount of physical arousal, it had been a distant and foreign thing, something he’d heard of but not experienced.

He’d experimented with self-stimulation initially, when he’d been alone in his little apartment with too much time on his hands; he hadn’t liked it much, or actually at all. Experiencing pleasure was not one of the things he’d been made for, and touching himself had only yielded something he could describe as vague discomfort, mental as much as physical. It wasn’t until he started spending more time around Hank again that his phallus had reminded him of its existence with subtle aches and twitches at odd moments, ones that were almost pleasant, like something was stretching cautiously under his skin.

This was something else altogether. He bit his lip, curling in on himself, trying to breathe through it. He thought he could ignore it if he didn’t touch anything, or press his hips into the sheets, or think about the way the fabric of his pants caught against his skin there, the scrape of it subtle but inescapable, or imagine the way it might feel to have _Hank_ touch him instead. Connor thought about his hands, the weight of them, the rough-yet-soft texture, callused fingertips and velvet skin. If they felt nice on his hips, his chest, his waist —

He bit down on a moan. He was supposed to be avoiding this train of thought, not lingering on it.

It took Connor a few minutes of slow breathing and clearing his mind to finally collect himself. He sighed as he finally got out of bed, aching everywhere and deeply dissatisfied with this turn of events. He was tired, his limbs felt heavy, his shoulders ached. His mouth and his eyes were dry, almost fuzzy.

He got a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt from the neatly folded pile of his own clothes he kept in Hank’s closet. It took him a few minutes to get dressed; he was still shaky, too cold without Hank wrapped around him, but no longer suffering from a painful degree of arousal. Just a persistent emptiness he didn’t much like.

Hank was being uncharacteristically enthusiastic when he finally wandered into the kitchen. Connor watched his movements for signs of pain but found very little as he made breakfast, apparently intent on dumping half a bottle of hot sauce into his scrambled eggs.

Connor sat, glancing at the clock. It was early to be this energetic, wasn’t it? But there was almost a bounce to Hank’s movements, unusual and oddly graceful, and Connor quickly found himself fixated, staring as Hank made coffee and toast and — poured thirium into a tall glass. He set it in front of Connor with a look that made his eyes warm as they crinkled around the corners, then went back to keeping an eye on his own food, which allowed Connor to stare unimpeded.

He was ruffled, sleep-soft around the edges, and filled the space they were in with his entire being, humming as he moved. And Connor — the swirl inside him that had started out pleasant now veered into dread as bits and pieces of last night came back. Memories of dreams he’d tried and failed to remind himself weren’t real.

He sipped the thirium. He was dehydrated after crying, something he hadn’t known he was even capable of until he’d started leaking helplessly onto Hank’s chest. Except, he knew that tears were supposed to be relief, catharsis. They’d only made him feel wrung out and empty.

“I have a couple of questions.”

Connor blinked. “Of course.”

Hank crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter, side-eying his cooking eggs, spatula in hand. “Can you eat? I know you don’t have to, but can you? I’ve seen you drink, but you didn’t look like you enjoyed that much.”

Connor’s apprehension spiked. “Hank, I’m not sure I—”

“Just answer the question, Connor.”

Connor looked away. “I won’t be hurt if I eat. But it’s not a very productive activity, given that I can’t digest anything and would simply have to break it down into waste.”

“Hm. And those receptors of yours, the ones you use for crime scene analysis — they good for anything besides DNA testing?”

Connor wasn’t sure why this line of questioning made him fidget. He frowned. “I could work out the chemical composition of the food in question, but I’m unsure I would actually feel anything of value. I’ve never eaten anything before, and that whiskey I had just — burned. Hank, where are you going with this?”

Hank dumped his pile of eggs onto a plate, slid into the seat next to Connor, sitting down a little heavily. He grunted. “Oh, you know. Just… curious. All I ever see you drink is the blue stuff, and I figure that’s gotta get old sooner or later.” He took a bite, his eyes still on Connor. “You got plans today?”

The unease drifting through Connor intensified. He thought about the open case files on his desk; the android murders, now this mess with Linus and the human gangs that were apparently cropping up with disturbing frequency, often looking for thirium or biocomponents to sell on the black market. He hadn’t seen the connection. Still didn’t really see it; it was tenuous at best, but there were threads there that made it all hit to close to home, now that he realized what they were. ”I have to go to work.”

Hank hummed. He chewed his toast thoughtfully, washed it down with his coffee. “No, you don’t. You’re on medical leave.”

Connor blinked. “What?”

“I texted Fowler. Funny story. He told me he explicitly told you to stay away from the precinct yesterday.” Hank’s gaze sharpened as he looked at Connor over the rim of his mug. “Mentioned something about you falling asleep at your desk.”

Ah. That. He’d almost forgotten. “I didn’t fall asleep, I —”

“Spaced out. Again. At work. Apparently jumped so high when he tapped your shoulder that you damn near busted a hole in the ceiling.”

Connor pursed his lips. “That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“It’s called hyperbole, and it’s also not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Hank?” Irritation leeched into his voice. Hank was the hurt one, not him. He’d also been the one to tell Connor to go back to work in the first place, because he’d wanted to be left alone. Now he was annoyed because Connor had done as he’d asked? Connor needed a purpose. Objectives. If he couldn’t find them in the house because it irritated Hank, and he couldn’t go to work, then what was he supposed to _do_?

Hank just sighed, shifted in his seat. “The point, love, is that you’re tired. And sometimes what you need when you’re tired isn’t just sleep, it’s _rest_ , which is not actually the same thing.”

Connor closed his eyes. He wondered if Hank realized, if he noticed the times endearments like this slipped from him, seemingly unbidden. Connor did. He committed each one to memory, recordings he felt like imprints on his being, each waveform unique and — not, at the same time. Anything from ‘little shit’ to ‘love,’ and it was all connected by the warm, rich timbre of his voice.

A hand touched his. He stared down at it, startled.

“I’m taking you out today,” Hank said in that firm, no-nonsense tone. “No work. No taking care of me. I just — want you to have some fun, for once.”

Connor frowned. “Fun.”

Hank squeezed his hand. “Yeah, Connor. Fun. Rest.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea, with you still healing—”

“You let me worry about that. It’s only a few hours. I’m good.”

Connor huffed. He had another, more selfish reason for not wanting Hank too exhausted at the end of the day. But he let that one slide. “If you insist.” He was going to keep a vigilant eye either way, make sure Hank didn’t push himself too hard. He supposed if Hank wanted to spend time with him —

It was nice. Nicer than being at work, at least today. That was a startling realization. Connor liked work. He needed it.

He did. It’s just, lately, it left him — a little more exhausted than usual. He could take a day. Just the one.

Hank nodded. It was almost a curt motion, but then he finished off his food, and picked up Connor’s hand, brought it to his lips. A brief brush of them over his knuckles, an impish glint in his eyes, and then he left Connor again, citing his need to take a shower.

Connor decided he had to walk Sumo. If he stayed in the house any longer, he thought he might spontaneously combust.

 

As it turned out, Hank’s idea of a restful day out was actually — surprisingly restful. With Sumo walked, fed, and happy, they had a good few hours to kill, and Connor had half expected Hank to choose an activity that would send Connor straight into a panic, like bungee jumping or a roller coaster or — he wasn’t even sure, he’d just pictured something highly likely to tear Hank’s stitches. Instead, Hank drove them up to a clean, modern looking building with delicate, domed glass ceilings, oxidized copper rooftops peeking out from between them.

Checking his GPS, Connor raised his eyebrows. “An arboretum?”

Hank’s mouth twitched. “Humor me.”

“It sounds nice,” Connor said, not even trying to hide his relief. Connor could endure whatever misgivings he had about gardens, as long as Hank didn’t try to take him whitewater rafting. “It’s just… unexpected.”

Hank chuckled in the seat next to him, but then his expression turned pensive. He looked over at Connor, one side of his mouth curling into a hesitant smile. “Cole wanted to be a botanist,” he explained simply. Cleared his throat. “For a while, anyway.”

_Oh._

It wasn’t often that Connor found himself so completely at a loss for words.

He still couldn’t fully comprehend the depth of Hank’s grief. Sometimes he didn’t want to. It hurt to think about, even as he saw the effects of it and the havoc it had wreaked in his life, the scars it had left on him. He’d analyzed them before, his programming having supplied clean, calculated responses to his symptoms, but this was different. This was unexpected, too, because usually when Hank was reminded of Cole, he was neither calm nor sober. To seek a reminder out willingly, and without the aid of a bottle — Connor didn’t know how to interpret it. But it didn’t exactly put him at ease.

“Connor,” Hank said, the voice that washed over him a warm balm. “It’s alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t have brought you out here otherwise. I wanna show you something.”

Connor exhaled, made an effort to relax. “Lead the way.”

Hank was smiling lightly as they got out of the car and trudged through the thin sheet of snow towards the entrance. It was tinged with sadness, but he didn’t seem overwhelmed by it.

A question arose, unasked and unanswered. There would be time for it later.

Connor realized as soon as they walked through the door that the word _arboretum_ was really a bit of an understatement. He’d expected trees and brush arranged in neat rows along a stone path, steeled himself for something that would remind him of the Zen garden. Instead, he was greeted by a wave of stuffy, damp heat so intense it felt like a physical wave against his chilled skin. The light that filtered through the dome was tinted golden-green, the path under his feet mossy and soft, and around him was — well, an indoor jungle, actually, with trees stretched so tall Connor could barely crane his neck to see the tops, and heavy foliage weaving in between, coming in a million shades of green and dotted with occasional, surprising hues; flowers Connor had never seen or heard of before, fleshy and thick, nothing at all like roses. There was a wild disarray to it all, still man made but far from groomed into neatness.

The air smelled musty and floral, like rich soil, and was filled with the hectic buzz of cicadas and — birds? Something flew from one treetop to the next, cawing, a flash of green and crimson high above.

He realized he’d come to a complete standstill, a little awed by the change. This was very — different, different to Detroit, different the Zen garden, to the entirety of Connor’s experience. He possessed some distant, clinical knowledge of things like forests, but he’d never been in one, let alone one so lush and teeming and — alive.

He jolted when Hank squeezed his fingers, brows drawing together as he stared at Connor’s face. “I didn’t break you, did I?”

Connor huffed. He wasn’t broken, how could he be? This place was… “It’s incredible. It’s so…” he searched for the right word and came up empty.

Hank grunted. “Yeah. It is.” He kept his fingers interlaced with Connor’s and pulled him forward.

Connor let him lead, his head on a swivel, marveling at the intricate tangles of roots and moss, at thick, hanging vines and delicate ferns, the insects - butterflies — flitting from one to the next. Hank pointed to a few of the more interesting plants, even named them, awkwardly stumbled over explanations of what they were, their native habitats.

Connor could have downloaded several encyclopedias worth of this information, but somehow, that didn’t appeal nearly as much as letting Hank chatter away, absorbing his words, listening to him search awkwardly for the right terms, correcting himself on occasion when he misremembered something.

It took him five full minutes to realize that Hank was still casually holding his hand. He decided not to remind him, in case he’d simply forgotten to let go.

The question rose again. He pushed it down.

When they finally stopped, his mouth opened on a small _oh_.

They stood before a waterfall; not a very tall one, but it still steamed and the water roiled beneath it, opening out into a complicated, mazelike pond that cut through the paths around them, the edges of it rimmed with slate. The water was such a deep green it looked nearly black, but it was also spotted with swathes of underwater foliage, bright pink and shifting loosely with the current. Overhead, the canopy made the sunlight dapple warmly on the surface, and when he looked into it, he saw shadows of movement and color — fish, what looked like dozens of them. Golden, orange, a few that looked dark as midnight and others that shone with a colorful, opalescent white.

They sat on a stone by the edge, under the leaves of a cashew tree. Hank tipped his face up to look at the fruit, a small, wistful smile on his lips.

“I like it here,” Connor said quietly after the silence had stretched, comfortable and warm but woefully empty of Hank’s voice.

Hank turned to stare at him. He looked, against all odds, relaxed, his eyelids heavy, posture loose. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt; his arms were thick, dusted heavily with silver hair, his skin a little damp. The loud pattern of leaves on the fabric was exactly the sort of thing Simon had almost strangled him for trying to buy a while back, but Connor still wasn’t sure why. He liked it. It looked nice.

Hank looked nice.

“I wanted you to see something new, I guess. Figured you’d had your fill of winter.”

He thought about cold and snow, remembered stumbling through a blizzard alone, trying to fight his way free, his emotions scattered but all centered around the gravity of the revolution, of life. And weakness that he almost hadn’t escaped. The gun in his hand, his body beyond his control. The world flickering in and out. It was the most fear he’d ever felt in his admittedly short existence, and even then his only crystal clear thoughts have been of Hank.

Hank, who had brought him here on a morning the night after finding out about his nightmares, into a literal tropical rainforest in the middle of a Michigan winter.

He closed his eyes, listening to the unfamiliar sounds, the gurgle of the water, and underneath that, Hank’s heartbeat and his steady breathing right next to him.

“It’s new,” he affirmed. He liked it. He liked that Hank had thought of it even more.

The mist curling around them was dense and smoky, obscuring the distant trees and blurring the air between them, softening Hank’s features. He looked lost in thought, his eyes on the rippling water. Reminiscing, maybe. It was all new, but especially this part. Hank was letting him into a place he doubted anyone knew existed.

The question came back, nagging him. But it felt wrong to ask outright like this, with Hank still and quiet next to him. He let it drift, focusing instead on this feeling, trying to name it.

They rested a while in the silence, listening to this odd little corner of the world move around them. Connor felt increasingly warm, but the sensation was surprisingly pleasant, lulling him, even as it got harder to draw in air. He didn’t need to, but he’d grown quite used to oxygenating his thirium, and the movements of his biocomponents that came with that. He wondered if it meant he was still growing, still becoming a little more human every day.

He reached to wipe at his brow with his sleeve. Frowned, thinking. He didn’t sweat, so what —

Hank snorted a soft laugh, staring down at him. “You look like you just ran a marathon. Guess I forgot about this part.”

Ah. The mist. It had condensed on them both, settling into their clothes and their hair. Connor’s mouth quirked. Hank was flushed, eyes warm as he looked at Connor, his shirt clinging slightly to his body. Not wet, but not dry either.

Connor stamped down the urge to crawl over to him and lick his neck. Remembered sharply the flavor of his sweat, the bitter, salty complexity of it, a taste that was just his and no one else’s. In this heat, he imagined that Hank would taste very especially like _Hank_ , and the thought had him feeling all sorts of things again, most of them inappropriate for a public place.

Or — semi-public, actually. Like this, they were hidden away from the world, fronds of foliage shielding them from the footpath, the waterfall drowning out all noise. They were effectively alone. No one would disturb them here.

He shifted cautiously towards Hank, sat straight to face him with his legs crossed.

But then, he’d practically jumped on top of Hank last night, desperate for contact, for reassurance, still half in a dream he didn’t want to remember.

He shouldn’t have done it. Hank had hesitated, even as he kissed Connor back. And Connor had been too afraid, too overwhelmed to do anything but listen to the hum of Hank’s blood and the hands on his waist. Too soft with want to remember all the times Hank had subtly but inexorably pushed him away.

Although. He wasn’t being pushed away now. That was confusing in its own right, because Hank was — taking him places, and looking at him like this, sitting close. He’d woken up on top of him, and instead of flinching like he always did, he’d kissed his cheek, held his hand at the breakfast table. But there had been no words of acknowledgment, nothing to indicate he was interested in discussing his feelings. As always, he was missing clarity with Hank, but he was afraid to ask for it.

There was… a lot of conflicting information. Whenever he tried to glean something from all this data, some indication of what it meant, his predictive program came up with a big, fat error message. Nothing computed. There were variables unaccounted for, out of Connor’s reach, and what was worse, he didn’t know why. If it had been anyone else Hank was showing this much affection for, Connor wouldn’t have thought twice about the interpretation.

Hank’s pulse picked up slightly in the space between them. Connor wanted to lean into him. But that’s how that had started last time, hadn’t it?

“Connor?”

“What are we doing here, Hank?” Connor asked, his mouth dry and his head and heart aching.

“Taking the day off,” Hank replied. He reached for Connor’s elbow, his fingers wrapping around it as he dragged him closer. And closer still, shifting, until his side was pressed to Connor’s, one arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. "Not thinking, or worrying, or fretting over bullshit. Got it?”

Connor melted into the embrace, a sigh bleeding out of him. He radiated heat. Connor was enveloped in it, and Hank wasn’t even that much bigger than him. Definitely not stronger. But he still felt — things he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling. Warm. Small. Safe.

From what? Connor didn’t need protecting, so why did he always feel like he did when Hank folded him into his arms?

He wrapped a careful arm around Hank, hugging him back, determined to do nothing at all beyond that, but still finding a way to be overwhelmed. When one of Hank’s hands drifted easily to the back of his neck, he shivered and tucked himself into Hank’s shoulder. This touch unwound him, like it always did, like it had the first time, the very first time in front of the Chicken Feed.

“Hank?”

“Mm?”

The question reared it’s head again. But truthfully, he didn’t want to know. It was better to leave it to the imagination, or to simply — be, to enjoy this without upsetting whatever balancing act they were in. It didn’t matter, did it? He was with Hank. Hank was doing something so unbelievably nice for him that it made Connor’s chest hurt. It didn’t need a name. He didn’t need it to be _more_.

“Never mind,” he said on a small sigh.

Hank drew back a little to look at Connor’s face. They were sitting side by side, pressed into each other, so close Connor could see the subtle shift in the shades of blue in his eyes. He stared at them, probably too long because Hank flushed under his scrutiny and lowered his lashes.

Connor hummed, disappointed. He’d never seen a blue quite so warm.

Hank squeezed his arm. Sensation sparked under his skin again, spreading outwards, making his whole body heat. He leaned closer without meaning to, seeking pressure.

Hank pressed his lips briefly to Connor’s forehead. “When you’re ready, there’s another place I wanna take you today.”

Connor forced out a short exhale.

A hand, cupping his jaw, and Connor had to close his eyes. He tilted his head into it, still shocked at how it felt.

Hank was checking off a lot of firsts for Connor. First hug. First kiss. And while he hadn’t been the first person to ever touch him, he had certainly been the first to do so with any measure of care or gentleness, as if Connor _mattered_. Before him, it had all been jabs, or shoves, sometimes hits — not often, but enough that he’d thought for a long time that this was simply how it was. Touching was unpleasant. It _hurt_ , and that pain was the only thing his body had been made to understand, which made sense — an expensive detective android didn’t need to feel pleasure, he needed to avoid potentially damaging stimuli and take measures to prevent it. There was no room or need for anything superfluous. Not — this. Not Hank’s impossibly soft lips moving under his at night, or his broad hand cradling the side of his face with a tenderness that genuinely threatened to shatter him.

“Still with me?”

“Yes,” Connor managed. He was.

“Come on.” Hank’s grip was still gentle. When he drew back, Connor’s skin felt cold where his hand had been. “Better head for the car before we’re both soaked, or you’ll turn into an icicle the moment we step outside.”

“Outside?”

“Mhm. Plans, remember?”

Connor must have looked a little bereft, because Hank smiled. “It’s okay, Connor. We can stay a little while longer, if you want.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm a cocktease. They do what they want though, so really you can blame Hank :D


	14. A New Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, haha. I'm still not doe with exams, but at least I'm not having 3-4 of them a week. Sorry guys, I know it's late ^^' but updates should get a lot more regular from here on out.

The next place Hank stopped was Brandy’s, but they didn’t stay long. The little bookshop cafe was old fashioned, moody, dimly lit, and really would’ve been the perfect place to take Connor for a date if he wasn’t currently frosted over and trying to suppress shivers. His hand was icy in Hank’s, so he dashed inside to pick up a few things while Connor waited in the car with the engine running and heat blasting weakly from the dusty fans.

He had a lot on his mind as he drove home, his mood still strange after the arboretum; he was off balance, his chest tight. He really wanted to talk about — things, but a lot of words were clamoring for priority and none of them felt like the right thing to say. If this was anyone at else, he wouldn’t have bothered, but it was _Connor_ , and frankly he needed some answers for his own peace of mind. And he needed — to process this, all of it. He was just starting to entertain the fact that he wasn’t going to hold out against the combination of his own neediness and Connor’s… something. Whatever it was he felt for Hank, precisely.

His head pounded. Desire? Maybe? He knew that Connor cared about him, if his willingness to put up with Hank’s bullshit was any indication. But Connor was also a god-tier twink with eyes people went to war for, young and vibrant and - Hank was worn with age and alcohol, existentially tired, and he wasn’t quite sure what Connor saw in him when he could go out there and have literally just about anyone else. Someone better in an entire list of ways. Someone like his old self maybe, bright and ambitious and as driven as Connor was.

Someone _strong_.

Hank wanted not to question it. For Connor’s sake, he tried not to, but it wasn’t something he could wrap his head around yet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt… desirable. Or felt the need to feel desirable, or quite this aware of his flaws, physical or otherwise.

He stamped down the little thrill he felt at the possibility that he might be, at least to Connor, without actually much trying. It was a dangerous, delicious thought.

They left the car encumbered, Hank holding a stack of flat boxes as high as his chest, a huge, brown paper-wrapped envelope full of Brandy’s selection of vinyl she kept just for him under his arm, while Connor carried in the coffee she’d insisted on giving them.

To his delight, Connor actually sipped the coffee as they shuffled their way inside, cupping his hands around it like he could steal some of the heat that way. And despite his still apparent discomfort, he actually seemed relaxed — or at least, more relaxed than this morning. It was almost — he looked almost like himself, which just threw into sharp relief the fact that lately he’d been so tired, so beaten down, Hank hadn’t even realized how much until he saw him looking closer to his normal, put-together self.

“Still cold?” Hank asked, putting down his boxes on the coffee table, giving Sumo a scratch behind the ear before shedding his outdoor clothes, seeped through with the smell of winter.

Connor looked up at him over his coffee. Sumo was leaning into his legs, tail swishing as he wiggled back and forth like he was trying to deposit as much loose fur onto Connor’s jeans as possible.

“My internal temperature is taking a bit to stabilize, but approaching equilibrium. Shouldn’t be more than a few more minutes.” He pet Sumo with all the usual enthusiasm, but Hank didn’t miss the mournful stare he gave his clothes.

“Is it supposed to take this long?”

Connor said nothing, looked away, scratched the spot on his abdomen where the dent was so absently Hank was sure he didn’t realize he was doing it. His suspicions felt confirmed, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it except feel worried and out of his depth. He had no idea why Connor hasn’t seen someone about this already, especially if something was still wrong.

Then again, Hank wasn’t the biggest fan of doctors, so he thought he could relate.

“Come on,” he said on a long sigh. “I promised you a relaxing day off, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Connor said carefully.

“How am I doing so far?”

A small smile. “Reasonably well. But then, being around you is usually quite relaxing.” His expression shifted, and Hank caught the soft shadow of his eyelashes. “I like spending time with you, Hank.”

Hank preened despite himself. “Kiss-ass.” He touched Connor’s cheek briefly, then forced himself to step away. “Come on. I want to lie on the couch and put on a cheesy movie as background noise.”

Connor huffed softly, but didn’t protest. He went to change while Hank turned on the TV and selected his cheesy movie playlist and lay out blankets and pillows; He was getting achy again, wanted to get properly comfortable, and besides - he had a thing for that thing Connor did when he curled up against him, settling in cautiously as if Hank didn’t already have a permanent, Connor-shaped void at his side.

When he came back, he was barefoot and wearing Hank’s hoodie and sweatpants, and whatever was left of Hank’s brain cells guttered out like a candle in a high wind.

Connor hovered. “I borrowed your clothes,” he announced. “I like how soft they are.”

Hank swallowed, because his mouth was watering. Cleared his throat. “Of course.” His face felt warm. And his hands. Come to think of it, he wanted to wrap himself around Connor like a pretzel. Realized he couldn’t think of a reason not to right now, so he sat down in his spot on the couch and opened his arms, lips quirking at how fast Connor came to him.

He was suddenly half in Hank’s lap again — literally, tucked into his side but with one leg hooked over Hank’s thigh. Hank put an arm around his shoulders and smiled, dragged him close, permitted himself a moment of just feeling this.

“So what’s in the boxes?” Connor asked finally.

“Pie.”

“Pie?”

“Brandy’s pie,” Hank amended, because there was a difference. Brandy made the best pie in the whole city, if not the whole damn state. “We’re gonna watch movies and eat pie till we throw up.”

“I’m not sure that sounds appealing.” Connor looked at the stack of boxes, dragged his thumb down the side. “Are these all—”

“Trust me,” Hank said. He opened a box to reveal the fist pastry. Brandy always left utensils in his takeout boxes, so he sliced off a piece and put it on a paper plate. He stuck it towards Connor, dropped it in his lap when Connor just stared at it, hesitant. “It’s worth it.”

To be honest, it was a bit of a gamble. Hank wasn’t sure how Connor processed taste, if at all, but if he was beginning to feel sensation the way Hank thought he did, then maybe flavor wasn’t that far off. That, and Hank had backup plans just in case — things he knew Connor liked; new music for one, a few good books. Little things, nothing all that special, but maybe enough to make him feel appreciated for once in his life. If he didn’t like the pie, Hank had more than enough room in the freezer.

Thankfully, the pumpkin pie was a hit. Connor took one very small, suspicious little bite, frowning at Hank the entire time, but then his eyes widened, LED spinning yellow. The look he shot Hank was definitely accusatory, and Hank chuckled. “Good?”

Connor stared down at the slice, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, and Hank bit back a groan.

“There’s a lot of information. But mostly it’s just — sweet.” He took another thoughtful bite.

Hank sighed. He was so fucked. He was much, much too old for the feelings he was having. And too tired, because he was still far from a hundred percent, and it was uncomfortable to have his boner fighting for priority with his desire to nap on Connor’s shoulder.

He pictured himself leaning in and falling asleep on him, face pressed to the soft fabric of his own clothes, loose with Connor’s frame underneath, and was disturbed by how natural the thought felt. He settled for simply leaning in close instead, even though he still - always - longed for closer.

Either way. This was good, because Connor genuinely seemed to melt a little every time they sat like this, and Hank was weak and human and wanted to feel every bit of it. They leaned against each other, relaxing into the low sound of the TV, only half paying attention.

He’d bought lots of pie in different flavors, so he encouraged Connor to try a little of each, and delighted in each focused, curious expression that passed over his features. He rarely had more than one bite, but somehow that was worse, because then he began to deconstruct the food, nibbling on the crust, pressing his tongue against the filling, and licking whipped cream off his fingers the same way he liked crime scene evidence.

Hank forgot to watch the movie. He tried to focus on eating, but at some point abandoned it altogether when he realized watching Connor was not going to release his attention anytime soon. He was distracted by the screen, which made it all the easier to stare at him as he absently took a bite of banana cream pie. It was big enough to leave him with a dollop of cream on his nose, and Hank reached up to wipe off with a small smirk.

Connor just blinked at him, and before Hank had a chance to draw back, grabbed his wrist and licked it straight off Hank’s fingers with a hot, curious swipe of his tongue.

Hank froze, his gut clenching around a hollow, swirling feeling. Connor just stared at him with an unreadable expression, and Hank swallowed tightly, because _wow_.

Connor sighed, released his wrist. “Sorry.”

Oh boy, did they need to have that talk. They needed to have it now, except Hank’s heart was pounding so hard his heartbeat was the only thing he could hear.

“Hank?” His name was a question, quiet and vaguely concerned.

Hank moved on autopilot, his body doing things very much without his say-so, because the next thing he knew he was swiping two fingers through the pie like and animal and offering them to Connor with a quirked eyebrow, something hot and liquid making its way though his body and pooling in his stomach.

For a long moment he thought maybe he’d fucked up and somehow managed to misread the situation after all, because Connor stared at him, unmoving, for what felt like an hour. Then he leaned forward with an agonizing slowness, grabbed on to Hank’s wrist, lashes lowering, and lapped at the dollop of custard. He slid the fingers into his hot mouth, curling his tongue around them and sucking softly, the pressure shooting straight down to Hank’s cock.

Hank’s breathing hitched. Doubly so when Connor’s tongue delved between his fingers, soft and exploratory before he drew back, having licked them completely clean.

Hank didn’t let him go far. He cupped his jaw before Connor could go anywhere, stroked his visibly flushed cheek, colored with a combination of some programmed pinkish response and the blue of his thirium, and damn if it wasn’t the hottest, sweetest thing Hank had ever seen.

He looked up at Hank, something sharp and bright in his gaze. Hank shifted, but he didn’t have to move very far because Connor was suddenly half on top of him, carefully keeping his weight off Hank’s body but hovering over him as Hank slid down against the armrest, one knee up as if that could ever hide the state he was in. Not that he really wanted to hide it. Not with the way Connor was looking at him.

“My analysis,” Connor said hoarsely, “has concluded that you are aroused.”

Hank flushed. “Haven’t I told you where you can stick your analysis?”

Connor tilted his head and fluttered his eyelashes in faux innocence. “I believe it was my instructions you were referring to the first time. You never did elaborate on where. Perhaps you would like to.”

_Jesus H Christ._

Hank pressed a hand to Connor’s sternum. Almost jumped when he felt the hard beat of his thirium pump beneath, marveled at what the strength of that pulse felt like. He shifted his grip to cup the back of Connor’s neck before the touch could be interpreted as rejection.

Connor still hovered, but his eyes were suddenly a half-mast. Soft, uncertain, but Hank would have to be in far more denial about this than he was to interpret the expression as anything other than lust.

“Lie down on top of me,” he said quietly, the words leaving him before he could consider them. He tried not to think too hard about what Connor had just said, because he was pretty sure any decency left in him was about to jump ship as it was.

Connor blinked slowly. He stretched out, tucked against his side, keeping most of his weight off, but that wasn’t what Hank was after. He curled his fingers around Connor’s waist and shifted him until he was properly sprawled on top of him, lighter that Hank had anticipated, but his weight still solid and comfortable. Like this, the most natural place for Hank’s hands to rest was the small of his back.

The way they were pressed together was also abruptly intimate, their legs tangled, faces close, Connor’s hand resting against Hank’s collarbone. He was propped up on an elbow, face impassive.

“I keep trying to respect your boundaries. But they just change, don’t they?”

Hank licked his lips. “Connor, I figure you and I wrecking-balled any boundaries a good while back.”

“Not like this,” he said. His gaze shifted to Hank’s mouth. “Is this… is this what we do now? Because I like it.”

Hank ran his fingertips up Connor’s spine, watched his expression flitter between confusion and pleasure, and the latter had Hank wanting to shift into him again. The way he was pressed against Connor’s hip felt damn good, and it was a curious, pleasant mirror of how they’d woken up. Together. Connor pliant under him, loose with sleep, staring at Hank like he wanted to be pounded into next week, breath catching when Hank, still half-asleep, had ground against him.

“If you want to,” Hank said finally. “Yeah, this is what we do now.”

He felt the moment Connor decided this was fine, let more of his weight sink into Hank, a thread of confidence in his movements when he rubbed the center of his chest with an open palm.

Hank was never going to get over the warm way Connor looked at him. Ever.

He sighed, forced out a question before he could say something stupid. “You relaxed yet?”

Connor bit his lip. “Mostly.”

Hank grunted, pulled him closer. “Not good enough. You want me to give you a backrub?” he half-joked, although he had to admit the thought of pressing Connor facedown into the couch and then letting his hands roam sounded exceedingly tempting.

“I’m not sure that would work on me.”

Hank’s lips curled into a smile. “I think it would. Look. Think about how this feels.” He cupped one hand over Connor’s ear, pinned his head to his collarbone, and used to other to slowly drag down Connor’s spine, neck to waist, in one firm stroke. Then again, up and back down, kneading a little as he went, grin widening when Connor’s fingers curled into his shirt and a soft gasp stuttered out of him.

Hank grinned. Connor’s muscles may have been synthetic, but he responded to being touched like any human after a long day. Better, actually.

Hank cupped the back of his neck and squeezed, thumb curling behind Connor’s ear, and Connor shivered, his moan muffled because apparently he’d taken a bite out of Hank’s t-shirt.

“Mm. What was this about it not working?”

“Shut up, Hank.”

Hank tugged his shirt free of his waistband, slid his hand underneath to feel that smooth expanse of skin under his fingers. Connor pulsed with warmth, with what Hank could only describe as life. He wanted to shield it forever. Nurture it like a growing, tender thing, the shoots of green springing from dead winter soil.

He moved his hand. His fingers found another dent in Connor’s skin.

On his back, mirroring the other. Connor must’ve felt him stiffen, because he shifted to look up at him, eyes half-lidded, confused. Hank wanted to shake him. To demand an answer to why Connor hadn’t gone to get the repairs done yet, why he’d let himself get shot in the first place. _Again_. His stomach was suddenly in a thick, painful knot.

And then Connor pouted. “Why’d you stop?”

Hank sighed, fighting down the bubbles of panic and despair and scratched the hair behind his ear. Connor shuddered visibly, eyes rolling back in his head as he leaned into the touch, his fingers finding Hank’s hip and squeezing it.

“Good?” Hank rumbled, even though he knew the answer.

Connor shifted restlessly. “This feels very nice,” he breathed, ducking his head like that was something to be ashamed of.

Maybe for him, in some small part of his head, it was. Hank somehow doubted that Cyberlife had hardwired an ability to be effortlessly self-indulgent into Connor. But that was alright. That was something he could learn. Hank had all time in the world to teach him.

Somewhere between comforting Connor in the middle of his nightmares and waking up next to him in the morning, Hank’s dumbass heart had made a decision for him, and every second holding Connor in his arms further cemented it. Quelled his fears.

Connor, with his desperate, clumsy kisses, the way he’d shifted into Hank this morning, the way they’d just — felt each other. The way Connor’s hand fit in his. The way he lay on top of Hank now, lax but a little shivery when Hank’s hands brushed some especially sensitive patch of skin.

He’d carried Hank to safety, and waited by his bedside as he healed, he’d taken care of him through his own exhaustion and pain. He’d come back, even after Hank pushed him away, again and again. He’d _died_ for Hank once, before.

The flood of emotion was unexpected, and Hank looked away, trying to put a lid on it. Connor shifted to stare at him, frowning.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Hank admitted when he found his voice. “It’s been a long time, and I’m not even sure I was ever good at it in the first place.”

Connor blinked and gave him a level look. The LED spun abruptly, warm and yellow. “Is that a prerequisite?”

“It might be,” Hank said. “I’m not prince charming, Con. I’m not —”

Connor ran his fingers through Hank’s hair on a quiet sigh. “Maybe I just want you to be you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Hank choked out.

“Isn’t it?” Connor asked.

Hank closed his eyes. It wasn’t, it really wasn’t. Connor deserved someone without quite this much baggage. Someone who didn’t have an alcohol problem, for one, certainly not one that had led to Hank pointing a gun at his head. Someone who’d never dehumanized him, ever, and Hank had in the beginning, and when he couldn’t sleep at night every cruel, careless word he’d uttered rang in his head like the repetitive tolling of a bell. He deserved someone who would make him feel safe, good, happy, so that Connor could forget about the general shittiness of the world for a while. Someone who would love him with their entire dumb heart.

 _Fuck_.

“Relax, Hank,” Connor said, sighing softly against his neck. And hell, even like this, with all the turmoil in his head, the warm puff of his breath set Hank’s nerves on fire. “I apologize. I really don’t mean to be so pushy. You don’t owe me anything.”

And that was patently untrue, because Hank owed Connor _everything_.

But that’s not what this was about.

“Connor?”

Connor propped himself up again tilted his head like a goddamn puppy.

Hank cleared his throat, cheeks heating. “You, uh… listen, I don’t — it’s like I said. It’s been a really long time since I’ve done the whole relationship thing, and I — I’m not exactly in my prime anymore, but hell, if you — if you want to try this, if you want — ow, Con — Connor, you’re crushing my hand.”

“Sorry,” Connor breathed, quickly releasing it.

“I don’t want to assume or push for anything if it’s just me, either. I — I don’t know how this works for you, but I just want to be… what you need.”

Connor, inexplicably, groaned and dropped his forehead to Hank’s chest. His fingers dug shakily into his arm, and he shifted, and when he rolled his hips a little against Hank’s thigh, Hank’s mouth went dry. He thought he’d imagined it earlier today, but no; there was an insistent, warm hardness between his legs, catching against Hank, and Connor was — Jesus. He was going to kill him, is what he was.

“Hank, if you still think it’s just you,” Connor said against his neck, “then you’re not much of a detective.”

Hank tried to remember how to breathe, without much success.

“Have you considered —” Connor asked, punctuating it with another roll of his hips, one that made the friction between them spark into something decidedly sinful, urgent - “that if I showed an interest in this it might just be genuine? Mine?”

See, when Connor put it like that —

“I kept waiting for you to decide,” Connor said, and his voice went low, almost a growl. “I kept thinking I was wrong. That I was projecting. You _let_ me think it.”

Hank swallowed tightly. His breathing was shallow. He squeezed Connor closer, unsure if he was doing it to keep him still or to keep him steady for what he wanted to do. “Connor—”

“I don’t want to keep chasing you. I just —” He cut off, reared back to look at Hank’s flushed face. “I want you to want me.”

“Thought you were supposed to be good at reading people. You don’t think I want you?”

Connor’s expression flickered. Almost too quick to catch, but enough for Hank to see it. The doubt.

And Hank just —

Keeping his hand low on Connor’s back, he dragged him flush against his chest. Because surely all of Connor’s fancy sensors could detect the frantic beat of his heart, the way his entire body reacted to Connor’s closeness, the evidence of his arousal pressed between them, the way his temperature spiked, the change in his breathing. He tucked his face into the warm crook of his neck, smiled against it when Connor’s breath caught and he stiffened against Hank in surprise.

Hank tangled his legs with Connor’s again, braced his arm against the couch, and quickly rolled them both over. Connor made a small, shocked noise, suddenly having found himself underneath Hank, his hands carefully resting against Hank’s ribs.

“What do you think we’ve been doing all day, Con?” He rubbed his beard against Connor’s neck, taking a second to catch his breath from the sudden movement. “Hm?”

Connor’s fingers curled into Hank’s hair. “It would be nice… to hear you say it,” he said.

“Here I was, trying to take things slow,” he said, kissing the spot under Connor’s ear. The warm skin there tasted clean, almost watery. “Treat you to a date like a gentleman. But you don’t like that, do you?” He scraped his teeth over Connor’s throat, tried to find the pulse of his thirium.

When he found it, he pressed his tongue into it. Connor squirmed against him, breath escaping on a strangled moan that made all the blood in his body rush south. He made sure Connor could feel that too, made a point of pressing in closer, slotting against him so Connor could feel the hard press of his erection where his hip met his thigh.

Connor stopped breathing, curled one leg up to tentatively hook it over Hank’s, keeping him close, his fingers twitching slightly where they’d wound into Hank’s shirt.

Hank hummed, something inside him settling. A combination of understanding and fear and heat. “Tell me what you want, honey.”

Connor’s breath stuttered out of him, shaky and low. “Touch me.”

Maybe there were reasons not to do this. To step back from the precipice while he could. But whatever they were, they felt suddenly too distant to hold any sway over Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


End file.
